


Pining and Posturing

by Kittyknowsthings



Series: Pining and Posturing – Extended Universe [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - All Media Types
Genre: (or is it), Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Anxious Crowley (Good Omens), Author has Invented Angelic and Demonic Courtship Rituals, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Courting Rituals, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley says Ngk, Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff, Is it Wingfic if the Wings are Canon?, Loopholes are Aziraphale's Love Language, Multi, Mutual Pining, One-Sided Aziraphale/Gabriel (Good Omens), One-Sided Gabriel/Sandalphon, Other, Pining, Several Unreliable Narrators that add up to a Mostly Reliable Narrative., Worldbuilding, if you need more info hit me up, more tags may be added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:13:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 40,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27816634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kittyknowsthings/pseuds/Kittyknowsthings
Summary: When Gabriel proposes an angelic bond to Aziraphale and won't take no for an answer, Crowley challenges him to a competitive courtship instead - and while Heaven considers courtships a mostly private matter, Hell's delegation to the Ineffable Parley certainly isn't going to politely ignore an Archangel walking into the negotiation room bearing an unauthorized demonic geas.Updates Tuesdays and Fridays (I shall try to make it consecutive ones!)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Pining and Posturing – Extended Universe [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2035423
Comments: 158
Kudos: 101





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many Thanks to the magnificent Noriann, also known as MilleVisages, Best of Cheerreaders, who has been patiently holding my paw through the last year, brainstormed, shooed any new tribbles into the tribble pen, and generally kept me going. <3
> 
> Also thanks to MoonDawnTreader, also known as nightbloomingcereus, for letting me use her fantastic turn of phrase "Loopholes are Aziraphale's Love Language" as a tag for this work, slateblueflowers, who helped tremendously with Shadwell's voice, and herebewyverns, whose advice was invaluable for the chapter summaries! 
> 
> If you feel you need to know more on the Endgame Pairings before Reading, run this one through rot13.com:  
> Gur Varssnoyr Uhfonaqf jvyy abg or Cnegrq. Tnoevry naq Orrymroho ner n frpbaqnel Raqtnzr Cnvevat, jvgu gur fgebat Vzcyvpngvba gung gurl jvyy or nqqvat Fnaqnycuba gb gurve Eryngvbafuvc va gur Shgher.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Gabriel is reminded that demons invented lawyers, Crowley gets to use a favourite pop culture reference on a new receptive audience, and Aziraphale makes a resolution that lasts all of thirty-seven minutes

Gabriel is feeling agitated. 

As an Archangel in pursuit of the Great Plan, he is used to always having something to do, but now he cannot find anything to apply himself to that will quiet the odd, persistent humming in his grace. 

It is a new and disconcerting sensation, and it has refused to leave him ever since Michael returned from hell to report, voice shaking for the first time since the War, that the demon has survived his bath in holy water.

Aziraphale not burning in the Hellfire - that could have been explained by demonic corruption. But this? This defied the Order of Things to an unprecedented degree. 

Was this, perhaps, a sign? 

A Sign from Her? 

If She indeed approves of the action of two presumed traitors - confirming their seemingly absurd distinction between the Great and the Ineffable Plan - then ...

This is where his mind stalls out, usually. 

What then?

What does it mean? 

He is the Archangel fucking Gabriel, and for the first time in the history of time itself he feels unsure not of his purpose, but of his direction. 

Now he forces himself to look at this uncertainty head-on.

If he feels undetermined when looking forward, maybe what he needs to do is look back, instead, and find where he has strayed from the path that once was so clear. 

What else might they have missed? 

The first and obvious events to examine is the immediate lead-up to Armageddon. 

The idea that Aziraphale has presented - that the war might not only not be inevitable, but might, in fact, not even be desirable - "there doesn't HAVE to be a war!" - had seemed laughable at the time. 

The war was supposed to be the glorious culmination of six millennia of work, and after their victory, yes, Earth itself would be mostly destroyed, but after the harvest, a new Earth and a new Heaven would arise. 

But if She does not want this - why?

Were things not yet ready?

Was Heaven not yet ready? 

Has Aziraphale uncovered something that they had been unwilling to listen to? Even at what he, too, must have believed to be his utter obliteration, he has attempted to appeal to them - was this truly the act of a Traitor? It had seemed, at the time, another taunt, a last insult in a series of them. 

The resolve in the last stare with which he had fixed them - fixed Gabriel - right before he stepped into the fire flashes through his mind.

It had made something inside him shudder with the sudden urge to ... acquiesce. 

He has assumed it was - a failure of whatever shielding had kept his compromised, now partially demonic nature, a sense of foreboding of what would happen next - but now it is time to re-examine that conclusion. 

Perhaps it was the first spark of insight instead. 

The Humans had been Her Favored creation, and Aziraphale has tended them faithfully, and he has also been, as Earth Observation Files have indicated, in close contact with the Serpent – the original tempter, and known personal favourite of Satan's – for centuries, perhaps millennia.

Perhaps he has, in this pursuit, indeed gathered valuable intel that the Archangels, too focused on their glorious pursuit, were unwilling to consider. He sought them out several times - sought him, Gabriel, out personally.

Perhaps Aziraphale trying to convince them - convince him - was Her testing them. 

Perhaps, as painful as facing the idea is - the Archangels have failed it. 

Gabriel has failed it.

But She is, after all, Merciful.

She forgives those who work to rectify their failures - so he needs to bring Aziraphale back for Heaven and, critically, this time actually consider - and welcome - the intel he has collated. Listen to what he has to say.

But how? They have lost his trust, and, much as he loathes to admit it, justifiably so. 

How can Gabriel prove his Insight is genuine – to him, and to Her?

Without tipping off the demon who still hangs about Aziraphale? 

By taking a leap of faith. 

With renewed conviction he pulls out his wings to pluck a feather.

He inspects it carefully, turning it this way and that, before he carefully begins to fashion it into a preening comb. 

In truth, he has not given courting much thought, before – the closest he has ever come to considering the matter was a short exchange with Sandalphon after Uriel announced her own bonding at a meeting some millennia ago.

Sandalphon asked if he had ever pondered courtship.

Gabriel responded that he felt, given his position, it would detract from his angelic mission by splitting his focus, and was therefore not something he would contemplate until the Great Plan had been brought to completion. 

Sandalphon, unsurprisingly, agreed, and they went back to work. 

This, he reasons, is instead serving his angelic mission. 

He is lost in the careful manipulation of matter and grace for an indeterminate amount of time when a distinct knock at his office door makes him pause and check the time. 

"Sandalphon, come in!"

The door opens – but does not close. 

Gabriel looks up and is disturbed to see that Sandalphon has frozen in the doorway, hand still on the knob and eyes fixed on his hands. 

He has never seen his fellow Archangel in such visible turmoil – outside of high-stakes operations, Sandalphon is usually the image of composure. 

Their minds, after millennia of working side by side, usually run along similar tracks – Sandalphon often putting Gabriel's own conclusions into words or action before he does – that it is rare they truly surprise each other, but finding him work on what is, unmistakably, the sign of culmination in an angelic courtship must be a shock too many.

He clears his throat, and Sandalphon snaps out of it.

"Shall I see to it that you are not disturbed?" he offers. 

"Come in," he repeats, and Sandalphon closes the door behind him, stands at parade rest. "I would value your input."

Sandalphon tilts his head, a wordless request for elaboration, so Gabriel briefly lays out his conclusions and something settles within him as he can see Sandalphon follow them easily, minute shifts in his posture transforming the agitated soldier back into his trusted right hand. 

While he continues his work, Sandalphon leaves for some research, and, by the time he has finished the comb and is miracling up a container for it, returns with a valuable suggestion, which leads Gabriel to some specialized research of his own – and finally the purchase of a box of chocolates. 

"So now all that remains is reading in Michael and Uriel, I suppose?"

"It is early morning in London. I can take care of that while you go downside."

"Thank you, Sandalphon." 

Sandalphon nods and leaves. 

Gabriel fixes his face into his most winning smile, holds onto the box of chocolates with one hand, places the box with his comb in the interior pocket of his suit jacket, and closes his eyes to focus for a graceful landing. Wouldn't do to make a poor impression, after all.

He is supposed to materialize straight in the bookshop.

Except he doesn't. It rather feels like his grace has smacked into, and been rebuffed by, a metaphysical wall, while his corporation has not moved from his office. The disconnect reverberates through him – a sensation that, Gabriel finds, he does not care for at all. 

Stunned, he tries to miracle himself in front of the bookshop's door instead, clearly envisions the little stone step between the pillars. He is, again, repelled by what he now realizes is a ward. 

Aziraphale has crafted a ward against Angels strong enough to keep even an Archangel from miracling himself straight onto his property. 

How ... inconvenient. Yet, he must admit, impressive, and a potentially useful skill, once honed in the service of Heaven. 

Gabriel takes a moment to collect himself, then appears across the street instead, crossing it in large strides. 

"Third time's the charm" was the quaint little human saying, wasn't it? 

The wards do still tingle somewhat, but they also admit him, and, even better, there appear to be no humans in the shop at all! 

There is only Aziraphale, standing equidistant between two of the support pillars in the middle of the shop, hands folded behind his back.

"Aziraphale!" Gabriel greets him with a wide grin, taking several steps towards him.

"Gabriel." Aziraphale is not nearly so cordial, which is to be expected after all that ... unfortunate business. Well, least said, soonest mended. "What brings you to my shop today?" 

"I have brought you a gift," Gabriel starts, and holds out the box of chocolates with both hands.

He knows Aziraphale enjoys consuming human food, despite his claims of only doing so to keep up appearances, but then, he himself is fond of his clothes, so such an eccentricity could be allowed. He has, of course, researched carefully before he settled on this particular gift.

The wooden, satin-covered gift box they came in spoke of quality and would last longer than the chocolates themselves, the subdued design of golden print on dark brown appealed to his sense of aesthetics, and the gold dusting the chocolate truffles reminded Gabriel of Heaven, while the truffles themselves should speak to Aziraphale's preferences. That they were also, by human standards, rather expensive, appeared appropriate. 

Aziraphale, however, still seems oddly hesitant. Well, perhaps the box itself is too subtle? It does, after all, only say "DelaFee" on it, not "chocolates", perhaps Aziraphale was not familiar with that manufacturer?

"They're chocolates," Gabriel elaborates, hoping this will disperse Aziraphale's doubts. 

"I thought you did not approve of sullying the temple of celestial bodies with gross matter?" Aziraphale asks, eyebrows raised, and makes no move to take them. 

Oh, he has said something along those lines, has he not? That Aziraphale has taken his words to heart, enough to still recall them so clearly, is somewhat gratifying. 

"Well," Gabriel says, "I may have been a bit hasty in that assessment in my ... surprise. Consuming food and drink may not appeal to me, personally, but then, many of our fellow angels are also puzzled by my appreciation for cashmere, silk and linen." 

He still despairs of the continued insistence of Michael, Uriel and even Sandalphon to stick to their spats, as well, but now is not the time to get distracted. Perhaps, later, he can entice Aziraphale to help him modernize Heaven's sartorial choices? 

"I see," Aziraphale says, appearing pensive. "What's the occasion, then?" 

Ah, perfect, just the opening he needs. 

When he had rehearsed it in his head, he always had, by now, expected Aziraphale to have taken the box, but well, he has two hands in this corporation, doesn't he? He can improvise. 

He takes one hand off the chocolate box and reaches into his suit jacket to reach the other, a subtle miracle turning the top of it into glass, to show off its contents without the need for opening it.

Aziraphale goes wide-eyed when he recognizes what Gabriel is offering. 

"Gabriel, you - you cannot possibly mean to-" there he stops, obviously is at a loss for words.

"But I can. And I fully intend to," Gabriel says, his voice lowered, smooth as he can. 1

Then he straightens up to his full Height to make his announcement. "Aziraphale, Principality of the Eastern Gate," he begins formally - and does NOT preen when Aziraphale's mouth falls open, his lips moving in a failing attempt to form words, that would be entirely unbecoming of an Archangel 2 \- "please do me the honor of accepting-" 

The doorbell behind him does not so much jingle as creak in surprise when the door finds itself slamming inwards with enough force the hinges, too, creak in sympathy, and Gabriel tenses and stops talking when he catches the scent of brimstone.

"Well, well, well," the demon drawls, circling around the Archangel; "What do we have-" he falters when he spots the comb. "You _cannot_ be serious." 

"You, demon, are interrupting," Gabriel says coldly. "Leave." 

Crowley has the nerve to ignore him entirely and turn to Aziraphale. 

"Alright there, Aziraphale?" he asks. 

"Just fine, Crowley," Aziraphale responds, but still looks rather strained himself. Damn the demon's infernal timing. 

"You, demon, are disrupting a personal and private moment that is none of your business, so I must insist that you depart," Gabriel says, forcing himself to stay civil to Aziraphale's associate. 

"None of my business?" the demon echoes, his eyebrows climbing above the shades. "You waltz in here uninvited and dare to insult Aziraphale with a proposal that would have been presumptuous before you attempted to have him killed, and now exceeds even my vocabulary in its audacity, and have the nerve to claim it is none of my busssssinessssss?" 

The demonic energy in the room increases. 

"An insult?" Gabriel demands, outraged. How dare this demon attempt to lecture him? 

"I knew Upstairs had declined in the past few millennia," Crowley continues undeterred, exhaling in a derisive huff, "but I thought at least the basic courtesies were still observed!"

"What could you possibly know of angelic courtesies?" 

"Apparently more than you, given you didn't think to offer Aziraphale a proper courtship before showing up here with a feather comb!" 

"A full courtship, after so many centuries of working together closely, seemed hardly ..." 

Why is he even entertaining the demon's arguments? That's probably just what the infernal creature wants. 

"What concern is it of yours, anyway, demon?" 

The demon opens his mouth, but doesn’t answer. 

Gabriel takes it as a good sign – he must have knocked his plans off course. 

"Well?" He asks, ready to press his advantage. 

The demon turns to look at Aziraphale, so Gabriel does, too. 

"This demon," Aziraphale says, "Is my dearest friend." 

Lord preserve them, he's miscalculated, this Crowley must be working some kind of occult magic on the Principality, perhaps has been doing so for some time. The Earth Observation files suddenly seem to hint at far more sinister possibilities than before. 

"And as such," Crowley says, newly emboldened, "I have a vested interest in Aziraphale's welfare. You should retract and apologize."

“Laughable!”

"Gabriel, while I am flattered by your interest, I do not think we would be the slightest bit compatible." 

No. No, this absolutely cannot be happening.

“Release what hold you have on him, you foul fiend!” he demands of the demon.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Whatever devilish magics you are working to cloud his judgement!” 

“Wait. You think he’s turning you down because I am MAKING him turn you down?” 

“Obviously!” Why is he even trying to reason with him? "Aziraphale," Gabriel implores, tries to draw on the strength of the Heavens to break through to the angel; " _Come home with me._ " 

"My home is right here." 

Gabriel rounds on the demon in anger and reveals all six of his wings, feels the Light of Heaven shining through the skin of his corporation. 

“How are you still doing this to him?” He demands. 

“I am doing nothing!” 

“Gabriel, be reasonable. There’s no way he could put any ... curse on me that you wouldn’t have broken through by now.” 

“Then what have you done? Poisoned his mind by some human method?” 

“I have done no such thing!”

“Do you deny that you want him for yourself, then?” 

“I don’t deny that I’ve sought his affections for six millennia, but I would **never** force him!” 

“And you expect me to believe that an Angel of the Lord chose a demon over the Heavenly Host?”

“We chose Earth over both the Forces of Hell and the Heavenly Host, Gabriel, and we chose it together,” Aziraphale claims. Perhaps he even truly believes it – He always has been a soft touch with the humans, and the demon likely found a way to leverage that. 

“I will not rest until I have won him back for heaven,” he promises. 

“You will not reconsider?” the demon asks.

“No.” 

“Well, then … I believe the angelic codex stipulates the conditions for a competitive courtship." 

Gabriel sputters. "A competitive - that's Preposterous! The Angelic codex is for ANGELS, not demons!"

What can the demon possibly be playing at?

"Is that so?" Crowley asks him, but doesn't wait for an answer, and then ... turns his back on him. "Adam didn't move it, did he?" he asks, Aziraphale shaking his head just as he saunters past him straight into the back room. Aziraphale follows, and so, befuddled, does Gabriel. He puts the comb back into his inside pocket as he walks, and places the chocolates on Aziraphale's desk.

While Aziraphale opens a drawer on his desk, Crowley puts his hand on a seemingly bare patch of wall, which ... shimmers to reveal several books that should definitely not fall into the hand of a Human. More evidence of Aziraphale's skill with wards – Gabriel has been in here before, several times, and never even noticed something was hidden.

The ward crafter in question clears his throat and the demon holds out a hand in his direction without turning to look.

Aziraphale gives him a pair of thin, white gloves, slightly creased from storage, which Crowley accepts.

The gloves, Gabriel has to note as the demon pulls them on, fit him perfectly. 

These are not Aziraphale's, and they have not been miracled up on the spot. The demon has his own pair, stored here, and not only knows of the Principality's hiding places but can access them. 

Gabriel does not like the image this is adding up to at all. 

It does not, however, seem proportionate the deep feeling of foreboding that makes Gabriel's grace want to shudder when seeing Crowley thumb through the pages of the Angelic Codex. 3

"Now, now, the demonic codex made a few amendments, so perhaps my memory is deceiving me," Crowley says casually, flicking the pages across in an entirely too callous way that should leave creases but somehow doesn't 4.

"There. 'A courtship may not commence if it would directly compromise the integrity of supervisory authority, if it is entered, or appears to have been entered, for the purpose of gaining preferential treatment of an individual angel or a department of Creation, if it is likely to cause a conflict of interest with angelic missions as assigned for the purpose of Creation, yadda yadda. Nothing here about Fallen Angels being excluded." 

"Because when the Codex was written, there had BEEN no fallen Angels yet, hence the very existence of your demonic codex!"

"So you want to play by those rules instead? We can do that, too. I just assumed, since you're both Angels, and I at least used to be one, it would be more appropriate to stick to the Original, but-" The demon rears up, his voice drops and he pulls off his sunglasses. His eyes have gained a terrifying, flickering glow that reminds Gabriel uncomfortably of Hellfire, and his teeth, bared in a predatory grin, suddenly look rather fang-like; "if you'd prefer I deal with your interloping the Hellish way, that can be arranged" 

"I'm sure _that_ won't be necessary, my dear," Aziraphale says, edging towards them, and the demon's posture loosens somewhat.

“Or, perhaps, we could cut to the chase entirely - If I were to offer my comb right now along yours" he makes to reach inside his own jacket, pauses; "do you truly think he would choose you? After you have made barely any effort to win his favour?" 

Gabriel swallows.

"Would this not be presumptuous on your part, as well?" 

Aziraphale does not seem to have been expecting it, at least, judging by the way he is staring between them, back and forth. 

"It would, yes," Crowley admits freely. "I always intended to court Aziraphale properly. But needs must, and if you will not listen to reason, I shall simply have to make it up to him afterwards. The question you should be asking yourself is _Do I feel lucky?_ "

"Angels do not believe in luck.”

But when the fabric above Crowley's hand moves, as if the demon is grasping onto something ... He finds he cannot risk it. 

"Name your terms, serpent," Gabriel says before he can think better of it.

"Gabriel!" Aziraphale has raised his voice. "I truly ..." 

"In light of how much the demon has obviously compromised your judgement, my declaration was indeed premature,5 but my intentions toward you are unchanged. If you do not think us compatible yet, then I shall have to convince you, and if you no longer believe Heaven to be your home, I will have to remind you, Aziraphale. A proper courtship will provide me with the opportunity to do just that." 

And to teach the impudent demon not to challenge an Archangel of the Lord, but he leaves that part unsaid - for now.

"Time to draw up the contract, then!" Crowley says, and snaps his fingers to make a scroll appear. 

Gabriel reads the contract, checking it carefully for demonic traps in both weave and wording.

A standard six-stage setup, so far so obvious, laying each stage out across an earthly calendar week. 

It does, indeed, stick to the Angelic conventions, though the exit clauses were rather more extensive than Gabriel was used to. 

"The courtship and its conditions end upon either of us formally withdrawing, Aziraphale formally rejecting or accepting one of us, any of us being destroyed, or upon the full passage of the six weeks? That seems excessive"

"I'd rather cover my bases, thanks. Any suggestions for amendments?" 

"I do have duties upstairs, it would not do to have you cheat and use your proximity - not to mention lack of occupation - to unduly influence Aziraphale." 

"I shall, for the duration of the courtship, not seek him out for any more time than you do, then?"

"That would be acceptable."

And hopefully serve to loosen the odd hold the demon seems to have over Aziraphale. 

The contract alters itself in real time as they hash out the details and schedule their meetings, as both angelic agreements and demonic contracts are wont to do.

"Aziraphale, anything to add?" Crowley asks, handing the contract to him. 

"Well, if we are to seriously do this ... I want assurance that my decision will be respected."

Here, to Gabriel's relief, he fixes him with a look, and Gabriel nods in what he hopes is a reassuring manner. 

Of course he will make sure the demon, once he has lost, stays away. 

"Should either suitor find themselves formally rejected as per clause 2 of the section on Courtship Conclusion, they hereby agree to refrain from any future courtship attempts," Crowley suggests, instantly making Gabriel suspicious.

"Unless invited otherwise by Aziraphale," Gabriel adds. 

"Unless and until explicitly invited to do otherwise by Aziraphale," Crowley corrects. 

Hard as he tries, he cannot find fault with that, so he nods. 

Aziraphale places his sigil first, followed by Crowley, signing the contract in Hellfire. 

"Last chance to change your mind," Crowley says. 

"You wish," Gabriel responds and signs. 

The contract scroll glows, rolls itself up, and splits into three copies - one for each of them. 

"I shall see you both next week, then," Gabriel says as he takes hold of his own, then turns to Aziraphale.

"Consider the chocolates my declaration of intent," he adds a bit more softly. "I hope you enjoy them."

"Thank you," Aziraphale says, a bit stiffly. 

Gabriel nods, and turns to leave.

This is nothing but a temporary setback – there is no way the demon can possibly expect to win.

⁂

As soon as he hears the door fall closed, Crowley's shoulders drop some of their tension.

He has been halfway expecting to wake up in his bed for most of this entire mess, but no dream could mimic the unmistakable feeling of contract conditions settling into his very essence. 

This is very real. 

"So ..." Aziraphale says; "that just happened."

"Sure did," Crowley says. 

"I can hardly believe it." 

"You better start believing it, the geas is already itching – how long was he in here, before I got here?" 

"A few minutes at best." 

Minutes are not remotely sufficient to handle this conversation. Well, minutes are what he has available.

"We don't have long, then, before the contract drags me out of here."

"Oh no," Aziraphale says as the implications of that start to hit him, "our lunch plans! The vernissage! The _opera tickets_!" He seems halfway to working himself into a proper fret, and Crowley cannot afford to let him. 

"Can't do anything about lunch, I'm afraid, but I'll take care of the latter two," the demon promises.

Aziraphale looks half-hopeful, so he leans in a little, drops his voice deliberately. 

"Leave it to me," he urges, hopes the memory will remind Aziraphale they've survived far worse. 

From the way Aziraphale relaxes, it has indeed worked. Crowley is loathe to leave him, but he doesn't have a choice. Best cheer him up before he has to go.

"So, what now?" the Angel asks. “Not that I don’t appreciate your quick thinking, but ...” 

"Now we enjoy the show as Gabriel grovels a little and embarrasses himself for the next six weeks, of course." The corner of Aziraphale's mouth twitches. "Consider it back pay for millennia of putting up with him as your superior." 

He waggles his eyebrows a little, gives it his best coaxing grin, and yes, there – Aziraphale is all but bubbling with mirth when he says: "It will be some show, alright." 

Then he's getting that worried furrow in his brow again and Crowley just cannot have that, really, when he barely has the time to figure out what Aziraphale's anxious about right now, let alone enough to alleviate his fears. 

"Just ... don't let the dramatics get away from you too much, my dear? I was quite worried you'd overplayed your hand, there, for a moment - what if he'd called your bluff with the comb?" 

Well, shit. 

Crowley swallows, hard, very carefully does not feel the weight in his jacket pocket practically burn a hole into his chest - but hesitates for a split second too long.

He can see it in the way Aziraphale's eyes widen and his lips part as Crowley scrambles for something to say that is neither outright confirmation nor denial, because he can't go too fast but he also can't, no, _won't_ pretend he isn't going at all.

“Crowley, did you – do you – were you really –” Aziraphale can't even find words for it, but then, neither can Crowley, and certainly not with only seconds to spare – bless Gabriel's entire fucking existence, the geas is pulling at him nearly as much as his heart and only one of them will wait. 

He'll have to filibuster, then. 

"Now that, Angel," he drawls with his best reckless grin, looking up from under his lashes; "Would be telling."

Crowley winks, pulls his sunglasses back on, then saunters out. 

"Expect my declaration of intent soon, Aziraphale," he says, lifting the hand not holding the contract, just as the door closes behind him.

He gets into the Bentley and hits the accelerator hard, rather proud of the suave exit he has just pulled off, and barely glares at the dashboard when the radio, non-too-subtly, starts up the characteristic guitar strums of "Crazy Little Thing Called Love". 

Once parked in front of his home, however, he gives himself two minutes - on a timer - to hyperventilate a bit.

"This" he says half to the Bentley, half to himself, once the countdown is up; "Is going to be FUN."

He tells himself his heart is beating this hard in excitement, not terror - he can certainly manage to display his affections, while staying in his Angel's comfort zone, without being outromanced by the Archangel fucking Gabriel.

Right?

He closes his eyes, remembers Aziraphale's expression of relief when he'd stepped into the shop. 

The resolve with which he declared Crowley his dearest friend right to an Archangel’s face.

His _dearest friend._ He lets that memory echo through his head for a while, well aware the smile that is spreading on his face is entirely too sappy. 

And last, thusly fortified, he lays a hand on his jacket, right over the pocket, feels the edges of the feather comb he has been working on for longer than he'd care to admit even to himself.

Calls up Aziraphale's expression when he realized Crowley may, indeed, not have been bluffing - he looked surprised, yes, but, not disgusted. Not horrified. 

Perhaps ... not even displeased.

A tendril of hope curls itself around his heart. Maybe, just maybe, Aziraphale might welcome his increased attentions as more than means to an end.

"Alright, then. I've got an angel to woo - better get started."

⁂

Gabriel and Sandalphon are not, technically, late to the meeting, but Gabriel is still not surprised to see Uriel already in Michael's office. 

Michael, sitting at her desk, is smiling faintly as she asks "So, did he accept?"

Uriel tilts her head in question, as well. 

"Not yet. I have reason to believe the Demon Crowley has been entrapping him for longer than we thought. But I am certain I shall prove victorious."

He hands over the contract to Michael, who looks it over while Uriel reads over her shoulder.

"Thank you for the heads-up – Good, you have matched it rather well to the Parley schedule, if you need to swap with us for any additional errands, let us know."

Gabriel nods his assent and tries not to be too put-out when Michael, after handing the scroll back to him, seamlessly begins talking about some request from downstairs she's received through the back channels. 

It is, he supposes, appropriate. The Ineffable Parley 6 is of a higher priority than matters concerning singular entities. 

Only at the end of the meeting does he raise the matter again. 

"You have no other questions concerning the subject of Aziraphale?"

"Of course not, Gabriel. We have full confidence in your judgement," Michael says mildly. 

"If there is anything that is tactically relevant, we trust that you will share it, other than that, a courtship is a private matter," Uriel adds. 

Gabriel does not know what to do with this. He expected to be asked to hold a full briefing, really, was already mentally designing presentation slides on his way back to Heaven's official entrance. 7

Since his schedule is already rather tight, he should be relieved.

"If we leave right away, you should have enough time for a run before the meeting with Below," Sandalphon suggests.

This turns out to be an excellent idea - on the way down and to the park, Sandalphon asks prodding yet intelligent questions about Gabriel's theories of Crowley's intentions, and the run itself settles his mind and his grace even further. 

"Perhaps I should make running a more regular part of my schedule again," Gabriel muses. 

"Perhaps," Sandalphon responds.

They walk the rest of the way to Head Office in companionable silence - It doesn't take more words than that for Gabriel to know that his schedule will be rearranged to accommodate regular runs again by the time he gets out of the meeting. 

Sandalphon is nothing if not attentive.

⁂

Crowley musters his collected notes and materials, acquired over centuries, all stacked on his desk, and takes a moment to appreciate his foresight in making the time, since the apocalypse that wasn't, to collect them all from various hidey-holes across the island (and the continent) and instead store them in various hidey-holes across his apartment instead.

Seeing it all in one place like this, it's more than he thought. 8

He sets it all afloat with a flick of his wrist, several notebooks obligingly unbinding themselves, and starts pacing about.

But soon enough he has to acknowledge that it isn't working.

His working memory may be a lot larger than your average human's, but it does have limits, and there are too many variables to keep track of - not only has the averted apocalypse changed a lot in their dynamic, he never expected to be courting the Angel on anyone's timetable but their own, and absolutely _none of his plans_ account for a competitive courtship! 

He knows Upstairs has been underestimating Aziraphale, and he always worded his reports very carefully to make sure no one downstairs would catch on to his general ... Aziraphale-ness. 

"Of all the times for the purple-eyed archwanker to buy a fucking clue."

And of course it had to be the prettiest of the bastards, too.

"Not to mention the only one who knows how to dress for this century." 

It made a strange sort of sense - Gabriel, once no longer his direct superior, would start looking at Aziraphale as an angel instead of an asset just in time to make Crowley's life a lot more complicated. 

The demon looks upwards, wryly. "This is payback for the pustulent mangled bollocks comment, isn't it?"

He doesn't wait for Her to answer. She never does, and right now he has more important concerns.

How is he supposed to properly court Aziraphale in the sight of an Archangel – not to mention the rest of the bloody Host will likely get invested! – without leaking tactical information he cannot afford to reveal? 

"Need a permanent setup for an an operation of this scope, I think." 

With a snap of his fingers, there's a big freestanding pinboard standing in his office as he last had it up back when he was planning for the M25. He looks back and forth between it and the mass of paper9 surrounding him, scratches at a half-remembered mustache, then shakes his head. 

"Nah, I still need to think bigger." 

Another snap, and every available bit of wall surface has turned into cork. He starts organizing, small shelves form where he sends the objects, and his notes, as he flicks them this way and that, obligingly sticking to the walls without any need for tacks. 10

The system only makes sense to him, but then, it's not like he'll have to explain it to anyone else. 

At least his plans for the fifth traditional offering still work unaltered – and needs some lead time, if he wants things to get done properly, so this is where he starts.

⁂

Dagon and Beelzebub are lounging in their chairs in a show of boredom, but the moment Gabriel steps into the negotiation room, their heads snap towards him as one. 

It is Lord Beelzebub who swings out of their chair and steps up close to him.

"Which upzzzztart has dared to interfere with our negotiations? This is unacczzzzzzeptable"

"Excuse me?" Gabriel asks, faintly. They are a lot shorter than him, yet somehow their presence seems to tower, take up far more room than their corporation warrants. 

"Cut the crap, featherbrain. We can sense the demonic geas on you," Dagon snaps. 

Gabriel makes a mental note to raise this at the next strategy meeting - he was not aware of this ability previously. Is Crowley? Is Aziraphale? He turns over possibilities in his mind. 

"Exzzzzplain," Beelzebub demands, their buzzing rising in pitch, and snaps Gabriel out of his thoughts.

"It's a competitive courtship contract," Gabriel admits, then tries to go back to business. "I formally request a copy of the full demonic Codex for Heaven's Archives, Dagon, since it appears Downstairs already has at least one of ours."

"An Archangel agreed to enter a Demonic Competitive Courtship?" Dagon asks, her words measured and slow as if she's testing them out, her eyes wider than ever. 

"I agreed to an Angelic Competitive Courtship with a Demon," Gabriel corrects. "The Demonic amendments to the Codex simply ... came up in the negotiations." 

"With?" Beelzebub's gaze is arresting, one eyebrow raised just a fraction, and Gabriel doesn't even consider not responding. 

"The contract is with the Serpent Crowley, and our suit for the Principality Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate." 

If it is tactically relevant, an attempt to interfere with their negotiations, being open and upfront about it can only work in their favor, of course. It is undoubtedly the best policy.

Dagon scoffs audibly.

"So since obliterating the traitors didn't work, now you're trying to defeat them with the _power of love_?" 

⁂

Aziraphale stares at the door, trying and failing to parse how his day, no, his life, has just been derailed so spectacularly in the space of a single morning. 

Only once the sun starts actively glaring into his eyes does he realize it has now been several hours since Crowley left and he has not moved since. 

This, he decides, calls for tea. 

He lets the familiar ritual soothe him, hands moving in the same dance they have done for decades with little alteration. First putting on the kettle, then pre-heating the pot, measuring out his preferred loose leaf tea. He is running rather low, perhaps it is time to stop by the tea shop again soon, he muses. By the time he winds up his timer and is rewarded with the familiar ticking, his equilibrium feels quite restored.

Finally he places his tea cozy - his favored tartan, of course - over the pot and smiles, for it was of course a gift from Crowley, handed over with biting commentary on his habit of letting the tea go cold before the pot was even half empty. 

It had still been adorned with a burberry check pattern at the time, but that same evening - if several bottle of wines later - Crowley crouched on the floor in front of Aziraphale, stared at his bow tie with a rather fetchingly wrinkled nose, and waved a hand at the cozy, altering the pattern.

Then he had flopped back, wine sloshing dangerously close to the rim of the glass in his hand, with the smug air of a job well done and announced "there, now you match!" and it was probably meant to tease, but if Aziraphale still finds himself absurdly warmed by the memory, what is the harm? 

He feels an abrupt pang at the realization there will be no such cozy evenings for the next six weeks. 

After six thousand years it seems quite laughable to be upset about it, but they have at least spoken to another once a day ever since the world didn't end, and he was quite enjoying that, thank you very much. Aziraphale finds himself rather cross to be forced to give it up by Gabriel's ridiculous antics. 

What could the Archangel possibly be thinking? After the wards signaled two attempted intrusions shortly after one another, and while he silently gave thanks the alarms gave him enough time to get all humans out of the shop, he'd been bracing himself for a fight, not a ... not a ... _proposal_.

The kitchen timer pulls him out of his dire musings, and he places pot and cups on his trusty tea trolley. 

Only once he's set up at the table in his back room, idly wondering if being this close to the alcohol is a good idea right now, does he notice he has grabbed two cups out of sheer habit. 

He pours himself one, puts away the codex and hides it from prying eyes again, shoves the contract into a drawer - he will study both, but later, once Soho has gone to sleep.

Then he grabs the chocolates from Gabriel, places them next to his tea. 

Chocolates from _Gabriel_. 

_Chocolates_ from Gabriel.

His mind keeps stalling out over that, so he finally opens the box and stares at the offending little confections covered in gold.

Are they poisoned, perhaps, is it an attempt to forcibly discorporate him to get him back upstairs as soon as he'd agreed, to keep him secure?

He would be tempted to think the proposal itself a charade, but there was no way to fake the way that box had radiated archangelic grace, that comb shimmered with the same iridescence of Gabriel's wings. 

He could even believe his repeated intentions of rescuing him, misguided as they were, as genuine – but even if Gabriel believes him in Crowley's demonic clutches _now_ , it still didn't explain what could possibly have moved Gabriel to go from wanting to obliterate Aziraphale to wanting to bond with him in the first place.

He shakes his head, has another sip of tea, wishes Crowley were here to bat around theories. Or just here at all. If only so Aziraphale can apologize. 

Crowley pulled off the role of the dashing rescuer with aplomb again today, and Aziraphale, knees still slightly weak from the demon's soft "Leave it to me", has quite embarrassed both of them!

A preening comb! Oh, how he has let his foolish, romantic heart get away from him there! While he will no longer deny to himself he has been harboring daydreams that they will get there some day - even when he was uncertain if demons even bonded, and it was hardly the sort of thing one could just casually ask! - the idea of Crowley offering one at this point is quite absurd. 

Maybe, if they hadn't argued so in the 1860s - or if he had proven more steadfast through the whole mess with the fortunately averted apocalypse, bless dear Adam - but now?

He has done far too much damage to the poor demon's heart to be trusted with a piece of his literal essence! 

And yet his darling demon - oh dear, he's doing it again; _The_ darling demon, he corrects himself quite firmly - managed to gloss over that bit of awkwardness gentle as ever. 

Even though the look from under those lashes has not helped his rapid heartbeat at all - and now he is going to be openly courted by said demon! In full sight of Heaven! 

Aziraphale will have to, he resolves firmly, keep his wits about him. 

First, he collects his first aid kit, fortunately rarely used, but still well stocked - yes, he does still have activated charcoal. 

He picks up one of the chocolates gingerly and examines it.

It appears perfectly ordinary to all his angelic senses, so he dares to bite off a small piece. The gold itself tastes of nothing, adds little to the experience but some shine and expense. The chocolate underneath is, he will have to admit, of high quality. There's craftsmanship, if little art. 

Still he resists the temptation of biting off again with surprising ease. Though perhaps not so surprising after all, given they were from Gabriel.

For the next half hour, he monitors his corporation closely for any ill effects, but there appear to be none. 

Perfectly ordinary chocolate. 

He finishes the single chocolate, tries to savour it properly, but the pleasure falls flat, and he does not bother to have a second. 

When the doorbell alerts Aziraphale to yet another entrant, closing his eyes for a brief moment is the only sign of irritation he allows himself. A customer is the last thing he needs right now. 

"Delivery!", a cheerful and far more welcome voice announces instead and he all but wilts in relief, then bustles to the front to greet Sabine.

The young woman - though she may soon object to that descriptor, the crinkles around her eyes and mouth are starting to hint at charming laugh lines - looks surprisingly exhausted for the time of day, but is still resplendent in her work uniform, a chef's jacket with three-quarter length sleeves, buttons shining. 

Claude changed suppliers in protest when his old one not only not carried up to her size, but made a few rather rude comments when he'd politely inquired about options. 

When he heard the story, he'd shined their store with such blessings Crowley sneezed when he next stepped into it. 

Crowley had complained about that at length, but Claude's former supplier went out of business a few months later in a string of unfortunate coincidences that reeked of demonic intervention. 

"Hi there, Mr Fell," she says, grin wide, showing off both dimples and her rapidly multiplying freckles. 

"Sabine, dear girl, come on in! How lovely to see you, do you have time to stay a bit? I just brewed up some tea?"

He tries not to sound too desperate – she may not be the one he longs to see, but she is at least friendly, and she does look like she could use a break. 

"A cuppa sounds great," Sabine says, and Aziraphale beams as he leads her into the backroom, now glad he tidied it up.

"Where do I put this?" She asks, lifting the oddly shaped cardboard box in her hand. 

"Just here on the table - What is it, anyway?"

"Gift from AJ." 

AJ. That's what she calls Crowley. This must be his promised declaration of intent, then. Of course he would go to Claude, the darling chocolatier whose relocation to Soho they had finagled together, and Sabine, his apprentice-turned partner.

She sets down the box as bidden when her eyes fall on the other.

"Are you cheating on CLAUDE?" she demands, and before he can attempt to stammer out an answer, the outrage falls away to reveal her smile, warm as ever. 

"I'm just messing with you, AJ told me what happened."

She plops into a chair.

"He ... did?" Well, likely only a version of it, but still ... 

"Yeah, that Gabriel sounds like a real piece of work."

That startles a laugh out of Aziraphale. "That is certainly one way to put it." 

"Those any good?" she asks, eyeing the fancy gold chocolates with curiousity and ... is that a hint of insecurity? 

"Would you like one?" Aziraphale offers. Her eyes go wide.

"Are you serious?" 

"I am, try one."

She does, and Aziraphale watches as she mulls it over. 

"Good enough, but we could do much better for that price tag. Especially if we skip the absurdly expensive food coloring."

"My thoughts exactly," he agrees. 

"You're not just saying that to stay in our good graces?" Sabine teases. 

"No, truly. I like my creature comforts, but this display of wealth just for the sake of it strikes even me as ... obscene."

"You mean it's a way to take a really expensive shit." 

Aziraphale snorts and direly wishes he could see her say so to Gabriel's face. 

"Are your lovely sweethearts in good health? I'm sure they're glad to have you back, how was Belgium, anyway?"

They spend a few minutes catching up over tea, and Aziraphale could happily kiss Crowley just for putting her in his way today. Well, he might happily do so anyway ... He forces himself to focus back on Sabine.

"AJ also said he'll have to give Mimi's Vernissage a miss?"

"Unfortunately," Aziraphale admits, still rather cross about that. 

"Wanna tag along with me and the girls instead?" 

Oh that darling, darling demon. He didn't. 

"Oh, I would hate to impose!"

"I wouldn't offer if it was an imposition. We'll enjoy having you." He finds no hint of deception on her face.

"Then I'll gladly accept."

"So, you gonna open that or what?" Sabine finally asks bluntly, pointing at the box. 

"I wasn't sure I should, with you here. Didn't seem polite"

"Are you kidding? I've got strict instructions from both AJ and Claude to watch you like a hawk while you do." 

"Now I'm absolutely sure I shouldn't!" He jokes, but pulls it toward him anyway. 

The cardboard box is shaped like a pear, stem and all. Odd, but cute. 

"How charming! I've never seen a box like this!" 

"AJ made it. Even let us keep the templates" 

"He did?" 

"Yeah as soon as he let us know what he needed from us, he went out again and came back with a bag from a craft supply store and just ... messed with plain cardboard until he'd made it work." 11

"I wish I could have seen that!"

Sabine's grin turns conspiratorial as she's pulling out her phone.

"Here, I took a picture"

Aziraphale puts on his reading glasses to look and there Crowley is, on the tiny cellphone screen, tongue stuck out between his lips in concentration as he works on what looks like foil carton with all the intensity and focus he'd expect to see him apply to handling holy water. 12

Sabine lets him look for what feels like far too short a time, but rightly so, he could stare at it for hours, days, and still not have his fill.

"Come on, Mr Fell, my lunch break doesn't last forever!" 13

Aziraphale acquiesces, lifts the lid off the box and is greeted first by a note in Crowley's hand.

Angel,

Things may have gone a bit pear-shaped on us, but you did say you like pears. Hope you'll like these too! 

Yours, 

C 

He's already smiling hard enough to make his cheeks hurt as he gently takes it out and resists the urge to gently stroke the paper. 

The foil cardboard lining the inside of the box has a rose gold shine, and inside of it a variety of chocolates - he'd recognize Claude's and Sabine's work immediately, even if she hadn't delivered it herself - surround a marzipan rose with peach-colored petals edged in dark red.

Aziraphale can feel the blush rising to his cheeks and presses his fingertips to his lips before anything like a dreamy sigh can escape them. 

He doesn't even notice Sabine take a picture. 

  


1 He does not register the screeching tires outside. ↩

2 He also does not hear the slamming car door. ↩

3 Have you never wondered just what kind of questions Crowley has asked that got him kicked out of Heaven? ↩

4 Of course it doesn't. Crowley may make a show of nonchalance, but he would never harm one of the Angel's books if he could help it. ↩

5 Crowley makes an odd choking sound at that ↩

6 He is not fond of the name, but it seems to stick. ↩

7 His miracle allowance is vast, and not hard to extend, but a courtship is an unexpected turn of events and he would rather not have to file for an increase unless necessary. It would be granted, of course, but it would seem frivolous. ↩

8 The precarious pile stays intact only because everything in the apartment had the Fear of Crowley put into it long ago. ↩

9 and scraps of parchment, several wooden boxes, some papyrus, and a few scribbled-on napkins ↩

10 He forgot about it, so there wasn’t one. ↩

11 Crowley used to build stars - of course he has the spatial reasoning to draft a pear-shaped cardboard box. Not to mention all the arts and crafts practice with Warlock. ↩

12 This was wrong. His focus was _more_ intense. But Aziraphale has no way of knowing that. ↩

13 A little white lie. She knows Claude is only waiting for her to come back to close up early. But Mr Fell is all but swooning at the cellphone picture. She wants to see him look at the _results._ ↩

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Ao3versary to me! 5 years since Kittyknowsthings officially posted her first fic =)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Gabriel's artistic vision is impeded by his budget, Crowley is horrified by a state of dire scarcity, and Aziraphale receives one more gift than he expects

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the footnotes should all WORK, but 19-21 take you to the END of the footnote for some reason (still staring at the code trying to figure out why), so if a footnote spits you out not exactly at a number but at the line with the return arrow, you'll have to scroll up a bit.   
> Sorry!

Crowley’s mobile phone vibrates while he is in the middle of a phone call, and a short glance at his screen tells him Sabine messaged him.

He proves the monumental self control of finishing his current conversation first.

"No, really, as long as you stick to the colors we discussed and keep it simple enough it doesn't clash with the other pattern, I leave what you do with the back up to you. You're the craftswoman, not me. I've seen your work, I respect your judgement."

Crowley nearly vibrates out of his skin with impatience while he makes it through the polite closing salutations.

Finally he can hang up and allows himself to unlock his smartphone's screen.

Sabine sent him a picture of the chocolate box Gabriel had brought, opened now – two chocolates gone so far only.

Looking at the time stamp of the picture, that is unusually restrained, for Aziraphale.

"So looks like he doesn't like arsehole's chocolates. I ate one of those. While not as good as ours, I don't think it's the quality that's putting him off."

Even better, and valuable intel, but _not the one he is itching to receive_.

Patience, however, is a virtue, so he doesn't have to bother with it.

"What did he think of OUR chocolates, though?"

Her response is too quick to be anything but prepared for the second he asks.

"I'd say mission accomplished" with a picture of Aziraphale that is ...

Aziraphale isn't looking at the camera, but down at something, presumably the chocolates. He's wearing the silly little reading glasses that should make him look ridiculous but somehow, vexingly, don't. There's a flush on his cheeks and the tip of his ears. His perfectly manicured fingertips are pressed to his lips but not remotely covering a wide smile that is crinkling his eyes and making his cheeks look frustratingly kissable.

The small part of his brain that is still in mission mode makes a tactical entry: If this is the response he can expect to all his offerings, he needs to steel himself, else this expression deployed at close-range might discorporate him.

The rest of him is too busy staring, and it takes him an embarrasssingly long time to even realize Sabine has sent another text.

"He didn't even notice me taking the picture. And I wasn't half as subtle as this morning."

That makes him stop in his tracks.

"This morning?"

She, infuriatingly, only responds with a winky-faced tongue-out emoticon.

"Sabine, what did you do."

Not a question mark. This is a demand. Not a question. 14

"Nope, he didn't get to see his pic, you don't get to see the one I took of you. I'll tell you this much: Mr Fell stared at it like a complete sap. I was half expecting literal heart-eyes. It took like, three minutes until I could bring myself to take the phone away from him. How the fuck do you ever manage to say no to him? E V E R?"

"I stopped trying about 4000 years ago."

He really appreciates modern humor's tendency towards hyperbole. It means he has to censor himself a lot less when talking about Aziraphale.

"Fair. So yeah, I'm still not sure what Gabriel's deal is, but I don't think he's anywhere near competition for you, AJ."

"Thank you. I hope you're right."

"Keep us updated? I mean, I know there's stuff you're not telling us, and that's fair, I trust your judgement there, but just – how you're both doing?"

He has to blink very rapidly several times until his phone's keyboard unblurs enough for him to type a response.15

"Will do."

It's good to have someone on his side, in this.

Just because Gabriel has the Heavenly Host at his disposal does not mean he is without allies, and now that Sabine has reminded him of that ... He tears himself away from the picture of Aziraphale and flips to the phone app, scrolls.

There. He lifts the phone to his ear, waits for the human to pick up.

"I'm retirin'," is how he's greeted, rather gruffly.

"The job's six weeks only – with six months of pay, more if you impress me. Nice little nest egg to start off your retirement, don't you think?"

"I'm listenin'."

⁂

Gabriel is not used to doing literally anything on such short notice, but the answer to what offering to make Aziraphale this week, traditionally reserved for nesting materials, comes to him quickly.

Surely another sign he is on the right path.

The offering in question should hold Heaven's tartan, but in cashmere, for the lightweight softness and warmth – it should remind Aziraphale of the comfort of the Heavenly light.

Colorful accents to personalize the gift – perhaps thin stripes across the weave.

Certainly, with current human industrial advances, there must be a weaver who will be willing to accommodate such an order on short notice?

"Not unless you're willing to pay the entire backlog this will cause in our production, sir."

"Can you give me an approximate figure?"

The human can, indeed, and said figure would overextend even Gabriel's considerable credit line – not something he can risk this early into the courtship.

He could miracle it into being, instead, but miracled fabrics never quite come out right, too sharp and buzzing with celestial energy, distracting on his corporation's skin.

He doesn't even like altering existing ones, the changed areas standing out to his angelic senses like a discolored patch job of the wrong texture. 16

Gabriel ended up teaching himself how to combine human-crafted materials so the ethereal impressions would fade to the same low-grade hum that any object spent around an angel will pick up eventually just so he could avoid having to discard old favourites over rips or stains. 17

Touching a spot on his scarf that had collected something sticky from a small lost human he had returned to their caretaker – Another few years and the patch job won't be noticeable anymore – he wonders if that, perhaps, is the solution.

Find components and combine them.

A trip to a department store quickly yields a cashmere throw with a beige plaid that is rather close, though not identical, to Heaven's war tartan. Perhaps only alluding to it is the better choice, anyway.

The Haberdashery department is less impressive.

"Maybe we should find a dedicated craft store instead?" Sandalphon suggests.

The first is subpar, full of yarns made of what appears to be warped oil, but a second is more encouraging.

Here, Gabriel finds a lovely cashmere yarn that fits his plans. Sandalphon offers up a ball of yarn of a slightly different hue than the one that drew Gabriel in – the label marks it as a different dye lot of the same colourway – that Gabriel has to admit it is the better choice. They buy up the entire dye lot.

"Wow," the salesperson says, a little flushed, are looking between the yarn and Gabriel's face as the device processes the credit card, "it really matches your eyes."

"That _is_ the point," Sandalphon responds a little stiffly.

Gabriel glances at him, surprised, but is quickly distracted by the search for a matching ribbon, which takes another three stores.

⁂

"Purple? You are _sure_ it was purple?"

Shadwell is, in fact, sure it was purple – or rather Madame Tracey is, and he trusts her sense of color more.

Crowley thanks him and rings off quickly, and then returns to pacing his office like a tiger his cage.

Before, the right gift had been obvious. A new sofa for Aziraphale's office, bigger and soft and, while upholstered in a style the Angel would welcome in his space, hiding the best of modern cushioning underneath. A sofa they would fit on together, an invitation to relax and just enjoy each other's company. One they could both sprawl on when drunk, instead of keeping to separate pieces of furniture. One Aziraphale could, sometimes, when his plans didn't need him at his desk, be enticed to join him on, to read or to just enjoy his music, when Crowley naps. Perhaps even, eventually ...

"Focus!" he admonishes himself.

Pleasant daydreams aside, he cannot do it. In a competitive courtship, this would make a far different statement, and the idea of Gabriel sitting on the kind of sofa he wanted to get, sitting there _with_ Aziraphale, makes him want to grind his teeth.

Gabriel.

Who has been getting cashmere. And satin. In _purple_.

"Aziraphale doesn't even _like_ purple," he mutters as he flops onto his throne in what is certainly not a sulk, thank you very much.

It takes for him to speak the words out loud for him to realize how TRUE it is. Aziraphale likes his neutrals, of course, white and beige and brown and even a light grey on occasion, combined with golds and blues and the subtle red of his favored tartan, but never once has Crowley seen Aziraphale wear purple, nor have any in his store.

He wonders, for a moment, if a certain archangel with a penchant for fashion that matches his corporation's eyes is the reason for that, or if that is merely wishful thinking on Crowley's part.

But either way, it is obvious Gabriel doesn't know. He hasn't been paying attention.

Crowley, however, _has_ been paying attention to Aziraphale.

Often even when he shouldn't have. 18

"Perhaps now is the time to prove it," he says, swinging himself out of his throne.

He needs to go to Tadfield.

When he sees book girl's cottage in the daylight for the first time, his first thought is that he is rather glad Aziraphale has not – it is bloody picturesque. Straight out of a little painting. Aziraphale would be gushing over literally every little detail from the garden (entirely undisciplined) to the ivy covering some of the house (a clear threat to its structural integrity), and the way the early autumn sunlight is glinting off the lattice windows.

It would be entirely unbearable and Crowley wants to hear every last word of it.

His next thought, as he tries to walk up to the door to knock and instead runs into an invisible wall before he can reach it, is less complimentary.

This dwelling is Protected.

"Oh you've GOTTA be bloody kidding me."

A horseshoe. Proper horseshoe, hung around the proper way, on the awning. The charred wood and bubbled paint around it tell him it's a strong one, too.

So he could likely push past it if he had to, but it would drain his reserves, and he would prefer not to do that.

"Come on, you stupid hunk of iron, I'm not here to do any HARM"

The invisible wall, of course, doesn't budge.

"Hello Mr Crowley," says a voice that did most certainly _not_ make him jump.

It's Adam, on a bicycle, with, likely literally, supernaturally good timing. The hellhound is sitting in the basket.

"Hey there, kid."

"You here to visit Miss Anathema?"

"I was trying to, but I can't reach the door without pushing through the ward." He points at the horseshoe; "And that doesn't seem the best way to start asking her for a favour. Not to mention it might set fire to the house."

"Fair. That would be impolite, I guess," Adam says, pensive. "But then, so is making it so you can't even knock, isn't it?"

Adam frowns, then goes past and knocks for him.

"Did you know Mr Crowley can't even knock on your door because of the horseshoe?" Adam asks, not even bothering with a greeting first, as soon as Anathema opens the door.

"I ... did not," Anathema admits.

"He says it's a Waaaard," Adam repeats, stretching the word, emphasizing it.

"I suppose it counts as one, yes," Anathema says, looking back and forth between Adam and Crowley, now, as if assuming the demon is up to nefarious purposes.

Crowley feels rather flattered at the assumption on general principle, but still tries his best to look as nonthreatening as possible under the witch's scrutiny.

"How did I get in, then? I mean we're made of similar stuff, right?"

Excellent question.

"I'm going to hazard a guess and say she invited you in." Crowley says.

"Well, she didn't say "come in" exactly, but she did offer me lemonade and stuff and held the door open for me"

"Implicit can do, for these things, depending on how the ward is set up. Or it might have been what led to the burn."

Adam takes a few steps backwards and looks up at the awning, frowning in thought.

"No, I think that was Dog. He's ... uh ..."

Adam makes a vague motion between him and Crowley.

"Infernal?" Crowley offers.

"Infernal too, and Miss Anathema said he could stay outside, but I made him come in."

"That ought to trigger the ward, then," Crowley agrees.

"I must admit," Anathema says, "I am hesitant to invite a self-described infernal being into my home."

At least one that isn't Adam or Dog, her expression adds.

"Sensible. Anywhere else we can talk? Somewhere with coffee, maybe, my treat of course?"

"Our tearoom's rather nice," Adam says. "And it's still early enough they have ice cream," he adds, in that not-so-innocent tone that tells Crowley that he is absolutely angling for both an invitation and an ice cream and makes him ache with missing Warlock.

"Do they have a decent coffee ice cream?" Crowley asks, already aware he'll agree no matter the answer, then remembers; "Oh, never mind, you're still an infant."

Entirely dismissing Adam's outraged expression at that descriptor, he turns to Anathema, instead, and repeats the question.

"Do they have a decent coffee ice cream?"

"Unfortunately not. They only have chocolate, vanilla, and strawberry. I'm pretty sure Pepper still considers the existence of further flavors a conspiracy theory."

Crowley has trouble not letting his jaw drop at that revelation.

The Antichrist had chosen to save the Earth while _only aware of three ice cream flavors_? He makes a mental note to tell Aziraphale about that as soon as he can.

"We'll have to fix that, then, don't we?" He says, raising an eyebrow at Adam, who looks very contemplative for a moment. 19

"Yup," he says, popping the p, "Sounds like a job for us, doesn't it?" 20

Adam seems to look to Anathema for confirmation, so Crowley again follows suit.

"Just let me get my coat, then," and slams the door in their faces before Crowley can object.

"A coat? In this weather?"

Now that he thinks of it, she'd worn one in August, too.

"Apparently she's from _Malibu_ ," Adam explains.21

"So she thinks _this_ ," he makes an expansive motion at their surroundings; "is cold."

"Americans," Crowley says with a roll of his eyes.

But he says it quietly.

The tearoom is positively tiny and doesn't even have bowls to serve the ice cream in.

Crowley convinces the waitress – her hair in a sensible updo that doesn't at all try to hide the grey streaks in the brown – to place one scoop per flavor in a teacup, instead, promising Adam he can have the rest once he's tried them all.

He's halfway tempted to give up after trying the vanilla. It's just so bland. Boring, most-common-denominator catering ice cream.

"Who runs the place?" he asks Adam.

"Oh that's Mr Benson," Adam says, pointing out an elderly man whose hairline had obviously decided to try the whole receding business, then gave it up as a bad job shortly after and fluffed up extra to compensate.

"Now," Crowley says, "watch and learn."

He sidles up to the man.

"So, Mr Benson," he starts, letting his powers ooze out just enough to alleviate the man's suspicion upon being approached by a stranger, "Ice cream isn't quite your thing, is it?"

"Not really. Always gives me a toothache. Even now – and I don't even have teeth to ache anymore!" He laughs, and Crowley laughs along. "But the kids love it."

"And are quite willing to bring their pocket money for it in a season that's otherwise a bit more slow."

Mr Benson shrugs wryly, giving half a nod and half a shrug.

"This _is_ a business."

"Of course, of course. So you, what, pick up some at the start of summer?"

"Yep, just the big buckets at Bestways, and as long as I get enough waffle cones, I'm all set for the season."

"You and I know this isn't really about the ice cream," Crowley says, his voice lowered conspiratorially. "You're selling an experience – the kids get to make choices with their pocket money, walk around in the sunshine with a cone in their hand. But that gives you a rather small target group. What about the older kids? And if you could convince a few of the adults to come around here more often, too ..."

He lets the sentence hang in the air, for a little.

"We're a tearoom, not an ice cream parlour," Mr Benson gruffly points out.

"You're a tearoom, not a coffee shop, and yet you serve a decent espresso."

"Dora insisted," Mr Benson said, nodding towards the waitress. "Since she'll take over this place soon enough ..."

Aaah, an opening.

"Does Dora like ice cream?"

"Well enough, I suppose."

"Trust me for five minutes?" Crowley implores.

"All right, I'll humor you."

Crowley coaches the man through making an affogato, satisfied to notice Adam and Anathema are still watching him - the former with rapt attention, the latter with a more dubious air. Dora seems to be getting suspicious, as well, working her way through the customers on a route that oh-so-casually takes her closer.

"Dora, dear, would you try this for me?"

She complies, tasting the sweet treat with a thoughtful air.

"Mhm, not tasting much of the vanilla, but it does have potential"

"That's because the ice cream doesn't taste much of vanilla, either. If you considered changing suppliers ... would also allow you to add a few more flavors. Stick to the basics, and rotate a few extras in and out, perhaps? You'd convince more of the local adults to come around in summer, too."

"And I guess you have a supplier already in mind?" Dora asks, eyebrow raised.

"Not really, no"

"Wait, this wasn't a sales pitch?"

Crowley draws back in offense, wondering if salespeople have become better or his own skills have deteriorated.

"No, this is me trying to make sure the kid over there" – he turns to point at Adam, who smiles and waves before tucking back into his ice cream – "learns what proper ice cream is before his taste buds are entirely ruined."

Not to mention he can't bring Aziraphale here as long as they serve sub-par ice cream.

Dora and Mr Benson look at each other, a silent conversation.

"We'll think about it," Mr Benson says.

"That's all I ask," Crowley says. "Though I wouldn't say no to a pair of affogatos for me and Miss Anathema."

Then he saunters back to the table, satisfied.

"Mark my words, by next summer they'll be serving something better," he announces as he plops back into the chair.

"Too bad I won't get to enjoy it," Anathema says.

"Why?"

"Flying back to the states this weekend."

Oh no.

"Are you entirely fixed on that?"

"That depends," Anathema says.

So that's a no.

"I need a favor," Crowley says.

"I'm listening."

"I need to you take Aziraphale to the opera next week. Dinner before or after. All expenses taken care of, if need be."

"Why?"

"Because I can't do it."

"Why _me_?"

"You know what we are, so he won't have to pretend to be human for the whole evening. Between your abilities and your common interest in prophecy books, you ought to have plenty to talk about. _And_ you actually have a sense of style."

The last one catches her by surprise, he can tell, but she won't be deterred for long.

"Why can't _you_ do it?"

"Binding contract, unfortunately. _Literally_ binding."

That draws Adam's attention.

"They were supposed to leave you alone," he says, a sudden undercurrent to his voice that Crowley very carefully does not try to analyze.

"What kind of contract?" Anathema asks, her poker face dropped for a sudden intensity.

"Nothing that's a danger to either of you, I promise," Crowley says, lifting his hands, trying to mollify them.

"I'm going to need more than that," Anathema says.

"Formal courtship," Crowley says, briefly, hoping to leave it at that and move on to hashing out the details.

The way her eyes light up tells him that isn't going to happen.

He knows that look.

He's seen it on Aziraphale's face too many times to count.

It's the hunger of a scholar who got their hands on a new source and is going to squeeze it for every last drop of information.

"Angels and demons DO that? Wait, if you're formally courting him, why can't you take him on a date? Doesn't that defeat the purpose?"

"I'm not the only one courting him, and the contract stipulates I cannot seek him out for more time than my ... competition," Crowley admits.

Anathema immediately launches into her next barrage of questions, but Crowley can't pay attention – Adam is staring at him, and the demon has to fight the urge to shake his head like a wet dog when it suddenly feels very, very transparent.

"Wait, _lightning dude_ wants to date Mr Aziraphale?"

The derails Anathema rather spectacularly, her mouth hanging open mid-word.

"More like ... marry. In human terms."

"They didn't seem like they got along," Adam says doubtfully. "Lightning dude was really mean to Mr Aziraphale."

A rush of affection for the boy nearly swamps Crowley.

"Yeah, he was. And then he just showed up and ... well, proposed." He leaves out the trial and hopes Adam hasn't picked that out of his brain, too. "Aziraphale tried to say no, but Gabriel wouldn't listen to him."

"So you got him to agree to a competition instead," Anathema concludes, suddenly a lot more sympathetic.

"Oh, will there be a duel?" Adam asks, his eyes lighting up at the thought, suddenly every inch a child again. "I can be your second!"

"I appreciate the offer, but I hope I won't have to physically fight Gabriel. He's an Archangel. Those are pretty tough."

"I guess I can stay here a little longer," Anathema says.

Crowley gives her a grateful nod. "I owe you one."

"You do," Anathema says, but she is smiling while she does it.

"Anything else we can do to help?" Adam asks.

"Actually," Crowley admits, "there might be something."

By the time he's finished his explanation, Anathema has started taking notes at a furious speed.

"So, what do you already know about how to find something that feels loved?" Adam asks, cutting right to the chase.

"According to Aziraphale "it feels loved" is the opposite of the feeling people mean when they say 'I don't like this place, it feels spooky'."

Crowley has been turning over that description in his head, but given spooky is sort of his natural habitat, he is struggling with putting it into context.

"But you think you can learn it? Even though you're infernal?" Anathema asks.

"I think it'll be harder for me, without the natural inclination for it that angels already have, but I think it should be possible. Back at the airfield, I sensed Him and His anger –" Crowley points downwards "a lot more, but Aziraphale did pick up on it, too. "

"Well, it was hard to miss. Gave me one hell of a migraine."

"You're human, so you're not aligned with the infernal nor the ethereal by nature, but your senses are strong. You'll probably figure it out before me. Aziraphale said the feeling of love for this place here is very strong, so it seemed like a good place to learn how to look for it."

"I suppose asking which human sense it should be closest to is pointless?"

"He spoke of flashes, but used "feel" and "sense" otherwise," Crowley says immediately.

"Maybe it's similar to sensing auras, then?" Anathema speculates.

"It's a place to start, at least."

"Then what are we waiting for?" Adam asks and looks ready to jump.

"The bill," Crowley says dryly.

He makes sure to add a generous tip.

⁂

Sabine, true to her word, invades the store with "the girls" – her lovely girlfriends, Emma and Beth, and Freddie, Emma's teenage daughter – early enough they can take a leisurely walk to the gallery.

The Vernissage is an intimate affair, most of the faces familiar. Claude has been helping with the setup.

"Saliha, my dear girl, I simply adore the floral pattern of your hijab," he finds himself gushing, and is glad to hear that Dimitri, Mimi's boyfriend, is starting to introduce himself with more confidence than defiance, now.

The clink of the champagne glasses 22 provides him with a lovely opportunity to shower the exhibit and all those in attendance with a blessing without having to hold back on Crowley's account.

He tentatively tries what Mimi calls "the boozy bubbly" – as opposed to the nonalcoholic drinks she'd poured for Freddie, Saliha, and a few others for the toast - and, already posed to improve it with a subtle miracle, he finds himself pleasantly surprised to be sipping a rather high quality champagne already.

"Holy shit, Mimi, how'd you get your hands on THIS?" Emma asks, lifting her own glass in emphasis.

"The bubbly? AJ sent a case of it, when it turned out he couldn't make it" Mimi says.

"An _entire_ case?" Emma blinks, obviously incredulous.

"Yeah? Why? Is that weird?" Mimi asks.

Emma exchanges glances with Sabine, then looks at Aziraphale, who is just smiling fondly and unconcerned.

"Nah, just doing a headcount and wondering if we'll finish that all off, actually," Emma says, her attempt at obfuscation a tad awkward.

Dimitri, Mimi's boyfriend, comes to the rescue: "No more until you've actually properly admired my girlfriend's work," he declares firmly.

Said work is, of course, magnificent, though he would enjoy it more with Crowley. He hopes Crowley will find the time to stop by the exhibition at a later point.

Maybe they can compare thoughts, when this whole mess is over with.

When they all gather again to take care of the rest of the champagne, Sabine pulls out what looks like a wooden box out of her handbag and hands it to Aziraphale.

It's a hinged double picture frame, plain but lovely, untreated but for the soft smell of beeswax, and it holds two photographs - one is obviously a print of the one she showed him at the shop, of Crowley working on his craft project.

The only other picture of Crowley he owns is one of those terribly American holiday pictures with Nanny Ashtoreth in her full glory, her hat adorned with a few holly sprigs in deference to the season – the one and only year during their employment Thaddeus Dowling had actually made it to the family holiday picture appointment 23 They'd set up on the grounds, taking advantage of the rare snow, and Nanny Ashtoreth tried to beg off saying she ruined the aesthetic, and the Santa hat would clash terribly with her hair, anyway. Aziraphale, as Brother Francis, had offered some sprigs of holly and affixed them to her hat with a quick unobtrusive miracle.

She glared up at him from under her glasses, but her lipstick also shifted hue, just a bit, to work better with the holly, so she couldn't be too cross with him.

When the Dowlings received the samples he had not been able to resist – he miracled up a copy of one Harriet was going to send back, where Warlock was actually looking up, adoringly, at his Nanny, whose eyes were of course hidden behind the glasses, but who was obviously looking right back down at him by the subtle tilt of her head, her lips quirked in a sardonic way that was somewhere halfway between Crowley's customary smirk and Nanny Ashtoreth's softer smile. 24

To stop himself from blubbering, Aziraphale takes a look at the other photograph, which clearly shows himself, although he is failing to place it.

"Now when did you manage to take that, my dear girl?"

"While you were busy swooning over AJ's chocolate box," Sabine says, teasingly. "I could have made off with half your stock, taking a picture was a piece of cake."

Aziraphale cannot help blush at that. She has a point.

"Thank you," is all he can manage to say.

"Speaking of AJ, when do you see him next?"

"He's stopping by the day after tomorrow," Aziraphale says, and does not notice he's stroking Crowley's photo.

"Good, so you can give him his, too."

Crowley's set of picture frames is made of metal, instead, more suited to his taste, but it holds copies of the same photographs.

With that, all is lost, and he has to quickly scour his pockets for a handkerchief.

"You must think me quite silly," he says with a sniff while he tries to regain his composure.

"Nah, you're not used to having people approve of the two of you. Not like any of us know what that's like," Sabine says, making a vague gesture around at the others.

"You look like you need a hug," Dimitri says, "would you like a hug?"

"If you're offering ..." Aziraphale says, and the tiny young man has a surprisingly strong grip which he gladly returns.

"Wow, you are GREAT at hugs!" Dimitri says, and now they all offer embraces of their own which Aziraphale is too charmed not to accept.

"Dimitri is absolutely right," Sabine finally says, after she took her turn. "I cannot believe I've known you for so long and did not know you are this great at hugs."

"I'm not surprised at all, he's got like, big capybara energy, anyway," Mimi adds.

"That's it!" Freddie says, snapping her fingers; "I've been trying to put my finger on it all day!"

"Capy-bara?" Aziraphale repeats, a bit lost.

"Capybaras are animals – they're so chill, they'll befriend any other animal. They sort of radiate peace. They'll keeping company with everything from ducklings to crocodiles," Dimitri explains.

That doesn't sound too bad, at least.

"So you're saying ..." Aziraphale starts, hoping someone will fill in the blank.

"That us baby queers all get the urge to flock to you because you feel safe," Mimi explains.

"Oh, oh how lovely, I am so very glad," Aziraphale says and has to go for his handkerchief again, and somehow that devolves to all of them finding pictures of said animal on their phones – apparently a type of rodent – with a variety of other species, just like Dimitri described. Some are climbed on by monkeys, others sat on by birds, and one is snuggling with a house cat, which finally gives him a proper sense of scale, too.

"Hey, Mr Fell? I hope you know you're safe with us, too," Sabine adds, a bit more quietly. "It was clear AJ was trying not to tell us too much, but what he wasn't saying still spoke volumes. So just remember, you're not alone, okay?"

"I'm starting to," Aziraphale says. "I'm starting to."

"Good."

⁂

Crowley is driving through the night, feeling victorious, the Bentley blasting "We are the Champions" in agreement.

He did it. He found something Loved, proper, capital-L-Loved, to offer his Angel. And it's not bloody purple, either.

He has gently placed his prize on the passenger seat – Aziraphale's spot, as he usually thinks of it – and occasionally, Crowley finds himself reaching out to pat it with a free hand.

But as he is getting closer to London, the impression of love he is getting from it seems to be weakening - is it simply fading from his awareness like a scent once you get used to it?

Crowley hopes that is all it is, but he cannot help the nagging fear that the proximity to a demon is detrimental in the long run, tarnishing it. 25

With a sigh, he abandons his vague daydreams of taking it to bed with him for this one night, and places it gently on the desk instead.

He throws one last longing look at it before consoling himself with the thought that tomorrow, he will finally get to see Aziraphale again.

⁂

Gabriel finds he has some ribbon left over, at the end, and offers it to Sandalphon.

"As thanks for your help," Gabriel says, "if you feel like replacing that brown bow some time."

Sandalphon looks at the ribbon, thoughtful, runs his thumb over the shiny satin.

"Thank you, I'll consider it," he says, winds it several times around his fingers until it is a neat little bundle, and places it in his pocket before he leaves.

Gabriel is surprised. That is not the outright denial most of his sartorial suggestions are met with by his fellow Archangels, even though Sandalphon _is_ usually the most courteous about it.

He folds up the blanket, satisfied with his work, and places it back in the canvas box it had originally come with. As good a way to transport it as any.

⁂

As the time of the next meeting approaches, Aziraphale, after finding several increasingly flimsy excuses to leave his office to bustle about the shop just so he can keep an eye on the door, finally settles in one of the seats with view of it.

He keeps a book in his lap, but he doesn't even bother to open it. His hands just feel better holding it, and he somewhat regrets having gotten all his preparations out of the way with plenty of time to spare.

Trying to contemplate what Crowley would bring him by now feels more like retreading familiar paths, and he doesn't even know where to begin speculating about Gabriel's plans.

Gabriel is early, holding what looks somewhat like a gift box from a fancy department store. Instead of entering, waits in front of the door, back turned to the inside. He is determined not to grant him and Crowley any time alone, then. So much for that vain hope – good thing he planned for the possibility.

Crowley arrives shortly after, surprisingly punctual, and carrying a rather big brown nondescript paper bag. Confounding.

He makes an exaggerated "After you-" gesture that Gabriel seems about to accept, then think better of, gesturing instead for the demon to precede him.

Crowley rears back, his free hand clutching his chest as if to ask "who, me?", and Aziraphale doesn't have to hear him to know he is making a show of being appalled that the Archangel doesn't trust him at his back for the time it takes to go through a door.

Gabriel gives no quarter, however, and Crowley, though not without an exaggerated pout, is the first to step through the door held open by Gabriel's elbow, pulling off his shades as he goes.

Oh, the demon is in full irritating form today - and Aziraphale won't even bother to pretend it doesn't make him feel more fond than exasperated, by now.

He stands.

"Aziraphale," Gabriel greets, a not-quite-nod-not-quite-bow accompanying the word.

"Back room again?" Crowley asks, his sun glasses now tucked into his shirt. Aziraphale nods – it makes sense. It's the only place in the book shop with a clear table, for one.

Gabriel hands his box over first, again. It appears they have established a precedent.

Aziraphale lifts the lid gingerly to find a cashmere throw with a plaid pattern mostly in shades of beige.

There are, however, several thin purple stripes, and the whole blanket encased in shiny satin binding of the same color. The binding bears no visible stitching.

Running his hands over the blanket confirms his hunch - there's a subtle undercurrent of angelic grace, but only very slight. Gabriel added that border, and likely also the stripes, and Aziraphale has no idea how he accomplished it. He has to appreciate that effort, at least, even if he has never been too fond of purple.

He falls back on the standard etiquette for handmade gifts. Thank the gifter by name, point out a positive attribute, and acknowledge the skill that went into creating it.

"Thank you, Gabriel, the blanket is very soft. I had no idea you were this adept at textile manipulation!" Aziraphale says with a smile that is only slightly tense.

"You're welcome, Aziraphale. It appears I can still surprise you!" Gabriel sounds pleased.

Aziraphale closes the box again and sets it off to the desk.

"My turn, then," Crowley says, placing the paper bag side-down on the table and makes an inviting motion.

Aziraphale pulls out what turns out to be a quilt and can't hold in a gasp at the feel of it.

He unfolds it reverently, feeling only slightly guilty at his open display of preference – It is supposed to be a competition, loath as he is to think of it that way, and Crowley very much has won this round already.

The colors are bold – red and black and gold on an off-white background, the pattern is beautiful, an intricate eight-pointed star dominating the middle and encased in angular patterns in the same colors. The entire quilt is hand-stitched, the cotton silk-soft from countless washings, and ...

"It's SOAKED in love," Aziraphale sighs, stroking over the fabric and barely resisting the urge to wrap the quilt around himself immediately.

"Yep, that was the idea. Found it at an Estate sale. It's been handed down over generations, but now there's no one in the family left to appreciate it, I double-checked."

Of course he had made sure, the darling demon, if just to make Aziraphale feel more at ease about receiving it. But how did he find this absolute treasure in the first place?

"You said you couldn't sense it, in Tadfield!"

Has Crowley figured out a human technological doohickey to do it for him, perhaps? Sought out and taken along a sensitive human?

"Well, I couldn't. Not back then. But if the Antichrist, whose powers were infernal at the time, could put out enough for you to sense it even through his protective camouflage, it seemed like Tadfield was a good place to start learning how, Adam helped, and Book Girl of course jumped at the chance. A witch, a demon, the former Antichrist and his Hellhound walking through a small English village trying to figure out an angelic skill – that's one for your history books!"

Aziraphale's mouth falls open, but he is rendered speechless as he tries to process that frankly astonishing revelation.

He does vaguely recall expressing surprise Crowley couldn't feel it. And the demon is brilliant and powerful, not to mention very stubborn, on occasion. He has wrought awe-inspiring feats before.

If someone asked Aziraphale, before today, he would have stated, confidently, that if any demon could learn the skill of sensing love in buildings and objects, it would be him.

But to teach himself to do so in a matter of days, maybe hours, on nothing but Aziraphale's word?

The more he tries to wrap his head around it, the more stunned Aziraphale finds himself.

Oh, who is he trying to fool. Aziraphale is feeling charmed, or rather – dare he think it? – wooed.

He can feel the blush rising in his cheeks, his rib cage appears to have been filled with butterflies, and he must fight the urge to do something utterly rash.

"You had _help_?" Gabriel, for once with fortuitous timing, demands in outrage.

"In learning to spot what I was looking for, not in obtaining the gift. Besides;" Crowley gives him a side-eye. "It's not like you were carrying your own bags when traipsing over half of central London on your little supply hunt."

"And how could you possibly know about that?"

"I guess my spies are just more competent than yours," Crowley says, oh-so-casually.

The theatrical thing, next he'll be making a show of picking at his fingernails!

"Spies? Why would I have spies?" Gabriel's expression has morphed entirely from anger to confusion.

And oh, does all the smugness drop of Crowley's face at that, replaced by sheer outrage.

Aziraphale struggles to keep a wide grin off his face at how mortally offended the demon looks – apparently Gabriel has failed to measure up as Crowley's ... well, what, exactly? Nemesis, perhaps - the villain to his rakish hero? No, that is not quite it, but what else could it be? 26

Either way, apparently Gabriel has disappointed in his assigned part, for Crowley sounds incensed when he exclaims: "What do you mean _you don't have spies on me_?"

Aziraphale, after six thousand years of facing off with his dearest Adversary, not to mention meeting plenty of crafty humans, of course noticed a number of the potential loopholes in the mutual non-interference section in the contract, but if Crowley expected Gabriel to spot any of them, he has vastly overestimated the Archangel's cunning.

Michael, head of Heavenly Intelligence, likely would27, but Gabriel or Sandalphon were not nearly so astute. He tries to distract himself from showing his mirth by pondering if Uriel would.

Gabriel does not seem nearly so amused.

"I have no need for demonic trickery, serpent," He all but spits, and all amusement drains out of Aziraphale like the last rush of water out of a sink.

"The contract defines the rules of engagement, not your holier-than-thou attitude," Crowley responds, and something tugs at Aziraphale's insides now, towards the demon.

"It's not an _attitude_ , I am an archangel, I am a great deal holier than thou by definition."

A sick feeling of déjà-vu washes over Aziraphale. Had he sounded that sanctimonious? It seems distressingly probable. It is closely followed by a red wave of anger that carries him forward, up to Gabriel, between him and Crowley now.

"That's _enough_ , Gabriel. I will not have you talk to Crowley that way in my Home."

"Aziraphale," Gabriel begins, then stops, obviously unsure what to say.

"Yes?" He asks, archly raising one eye brow, but doesn't give Gabriel more than a short, dramatic pause to collect his thoughts. "Using all the resources at his disposal hardly qualifies as cheating. You too read and signed that contract and know as well as I do Crowley did not break it. Just as _you_ have the support of the other angels, he can call in the aid of _our_ friends and allies."

It's as close to a proper apology to Crowley as he feels he can make, with the Archangel in the room.

"Bet he's just sore he didn't think of having me under surveillance," Crowley stage whispers, a bit closer behind him now, his tone smug and conspiratorial, and Aziraphale nearly wilts in relief.

"I shall have to rectify that immediately, then" Gabriel says. "Thank you ever so much for pointing it out."

"Well, you obviously need all the hints you can get," Crowley says magnanimously, but there's a thread of tension under it now.

"Before I forget," Aziraphale interrupts cheerfully before the situation can deteriorate any further and collects the now wrapped picture frame from his desk, holds it out to Crowley. "Sabine said to give you this, since you couldn't make it to the Vernissage"

Crowley lifts his eyebrows inquisitively as he accepts the package. Aziraphale tilts his head meaningfully toward the now-empty paper bag, and Crowley nods, message received, and does indeed put the package inside instead of opening it immediately.

"Are you quite done, then?" Gabriel asks, his voice riding the edge of polite.

"Excuse me?" Aziraphale responds.

"Well, Aziraphale, you have received our offerings, you two have wrapped up your human business, I felt it prudent to inquire if there is another reason to stay, at this point."

Aziraphale can only blink at that, then turns to looks at Crowley, who looks nearly as stunned.

What kind of courtships have they been conducting in Heaven?

"Conversation, perhaps?"

Gabriel seems puzzled by that. "But what could the three of us possibly find to talk about while staying ... civil?"

That, to be fair, is a reasonable question.

"Actually," Crowley says, pulling back a chair and oozing into it in a motion that starts out fluid and ends in a flop that somehow conveys the same finality as the period at the end of a sentence29; "I would be interested in hearing about your methods on matter manipulation. Replacing individual threads as in the blanket requires a lot of fine control, and I didn't spot any fraying or obvious patch-jobs."

"You were looking for flaws?" Gabriel asks, his voice a challenge, but he is already placing a hand on the back of another chair, and Crowley's face, just a small movement, a flare of his nostrils, tells Aziraphale the demon has seen it as well.

Aziraphale feels a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth when he notices that he, too, has made to sit down without thinking.

"Of course I was looking for flaws, Gabriel, we're competing."

"Fair enough," Gabriel grants and glances at Aziraphale for permission before taking a seat, as well.

Then he launches into an explanation that grabs Aziraphale rather thoroughly. He has to admit he'd forgotten that Gabriel is considered, among other things, the patron saint of teachers.

Far from, as he would have expected, exchanging the occasional silent communication with the demon and throwing longing looks at the liquor cabinet as the Archangel drones on30 he finds himself fascinated, even more so when Crowley starts _asking questions_ and makes Aziraphale realize he, too, can do that.

Can learn more, request specific information, with no Uriel to tell him he thinks too much, no Michael to smirk condescendingly, and if Gabriel wants to suggest he keep his mouth shut, he can just kick him out.

That awareness fills him with such a feeling of lightness he, for a moment, fears he might start floating if he doesn't watch himself.

But Gabriel is getting increasingly technical, and then Crowley responds with something even more abstract, and soon Aziraphale can do nothing but listen with rapt attention.

This has never been his specialty. Truth be told, he had no idea it was Crowley's, either – whenever they had cause to discuss their abilities, it was usually as means to an end, and no ends had ever requires this kind of in-depth review.

Finally a beep from Gabriel's watch interrupts what is shaping up to be the most enjoyable stretch of time he has ever spent in the same room with the Archangel.

"I'm afraid I shall have to take my leave," he announces.

"Pity," Aziraphale says and is surprised to find that he means it.

He watches as Gabriel walks out before Crowley, this time, and even holds the door for the demon.

If he didn't know better, he might just call that a miracle.

⁂

Crowley is in a rather good mood as he takes the stairs to his apartment two at a time, the paper bag with his precious cargo bouncing next to him, eager to unpack.

Once the package sits on his desk, though, he hesitates.

There must be a reason Aziraphale didn't want him to unpack whatever this is in front of Gabriel, has even gone to the trouble of concealing it – the object inside may be from Sabine, but the wrapping bears the fussy Angel's signature touch.

"So I got your gift" he texts Sabine.

Not technically a lie, after all. He just hasn't unwrapped it yet.

"See, the picture of you is perfectly flattering. I thought you might like the matched set."

Oh. Photographs. Nothing terribly incriminating, then.

Crowley likes the idea of having a physical copy of the picture of Aziraphale's, and must at least admit to curiousity about the other one, the one that Sabine had taken of him without his notice, and that she claimed Aziraphale had looked at for some time.

Opening the hinged metal frame, however, reveals something he is far more interested in – two folded up sheets of paper bearing Aziraphale's handwriting.

He quickly dashes off a response to Sabine – "I do, ta" - so he can give the letter his undivided attention.

_Dear Crowley,_

it begins, but the e looks a bit odd, as if Aziraphale had decided on a different letter after he had already begun.

Crowley takes off his sunglasses, then squints at the paper, lifting it close to his face.

Was it originally supposed to be an a, perhaps? But what could he possibly have contemplated writing, there? Aziraphale has started his every letter with Dear Crowley since they have started corresponding in English, though it has been some time since the last letter. 31

Perhaps a joke about his damned status that he then thought better of? But if so, why not simply erase the mistake, or start over on a new sheet of paper? 32

Crowley shakes his head and goes back to reading.

_You have always been better at the covert, with our alternate rendezvous points and such, and this would be ever so much easier if we could compare notes._

Crowley frowns.

_I hope you will be pleased to learn I did, in fact, restrain myself and tested the chocolates from G for poison before I tried them._

Poison? Leave it to the angel to fret himself to the point of suspecting an attempt at – well, it wouldn't quite be assassination, would it? Forcible discorporation, perhaps? – instead of taking a courtship attempt at face value.

It is however still adjacent to a valid concern. Crowley wouldn't put it past the other angels to use this to sneak something dangerous past them, and makes a mental note to stay vigilant.

_I also hope that by the time you are reading this we will have gotten to talk in private, if only for a moment,_

That warms Crowley. He had been very careful not to get his hopes for that very thing up, himself.

_but felt it prudent to plan for the contingency we may have not. It is truly fortuitous that I have an opportunity to slip you a message with Sabine's thoughtful gift._

"Sneaky Angel", Crowley says approvingly.

_Isn't she ever such a darling? We should do something nice for her, soon._

"Agreed," Crowley murmurs, and sprawls back in his throne as he reads the Angel's rambling retelling of the Vernissage which covers the rest of the page, _Since whatever cover story you concocted for Claude and Sabine meant you couldn't go, my dear - and after all your hard work!_

He rolls his eyes at that. Locating and then sweet talking the right gallery owner had hardly been difficult. The truly laborious part was convincing Mimi to take the opportunity – that required the combined efforts of Claude, Sabine, Dimitri and a dash of Aziraphale's angelic encouragement.

The four barraged her with compliments and reassurances until she was out of excuses – all he did was deliver the killing blow, staring at Mimi with a raised eyebrow after pointing out he'd hardly have bothered to have a chat with the gallery owner (true), and the gallery owner would hardly have agreed (less so), if her work wasn't good enough to be put on display.

_I tried my best to play along, but I so wish I had known the details! I could hardly press her on them, since I was supposed to be well aware. If you have not had the chance to see the exhibit yourself, I can only recommend you make the time! Mimi has quite outdone herself, and while we sadly won't be able to view her work together, I would still enjoy hearing your thoughts over a glass of wine (or more likely several), my Dear, as soon as we can._

As soon as we can.

Crowley does not give into the urge to do anything so ridiculous as press the letter to his chest, at Aziraphale's absolute certainty that they will get the chance to enjoy some wine and conversation again, but it's a close thing.

The paragraph has run onto the second page, and he was too focused on it to notice anything else, but now his eyes take in the whole page and immediately register to the closing salutation has the wrong shape.

Crowley isn't quite sure he can trust them.

Much like Aziraphale has begun every letter the same way, he has also ended them all with the same Valediction - "Kindest Regards"

Crowley remembers this quite clearly.33

But, it appears, not this one - the angel has signed it off with

_Affectionately Yours,_

_Aziraphale_

Crowley, sentimental fool that he is, presses the letter to his chest after all.

14 Not for the first time he finds himself wishing his demonic powers of persuasion worked via text message. ↩

15 That he can type on his phone without looking is entirely immaterial. ↩

16 This he has in common with a certain earthly principality. ↩

17 Which is quite a different solution from Aziraphale's, who prefers having an occult impression with a pleasant memory attached. ↩

18 Especially when he shouldn't have. He couldn't help it, even when it was to his detriment - or the detriment of others. ↩

19 Adam is caught in the conundrum known universally by children across the planet - a part of him wants to complain with the vociferous hatred all children hold for being patronized. He's saved the whole ruddy world, hasn't he? An infant couldn't do that! But doing that that would mean risking the ice cream invitation he is rather certain he has all but secured, at this point, and the demon's announcement is _interesting_. Unsurprisingly, curiousity and confectionery win out over pride. ↩

20 That he has no idea how to go about accomplishing it doesn't seem like much of an obstacle - it hadn't been much of a problem during the aborcalypse either, after all. ↩

21 He says it the way another child might have said "Mars." ↩

22 which are suddenly missing their casting lines, while the tone of the rims meeting rings out a lot clearer than it should have ↩

23 which Harriet Dowling scheduled every year and then, when inevitably disrupted by a work emergency, devolved into vaguely holiday-themed portraits of Warlock only ↩

24 He'd also sent a few blessings the photographer's way, to make up for his theft, even if it resulted in no direct loss to the photographer. ↩

25 Were Aziraphale here to hear this theory, he would - well, at first, before the implications hit him - laugh uproariously. The reason it took him until he stepped out of the car at Tadfield Manor to even spot the feeling of love over the area is that the Bentley is so saturated in its own patina of love. The combination of both, once he knew to, for lack of a better term, tune into the different frequencies at the same time, had given him quite the rush. He likely would have spotted Anathema in time to prevent their collision, otherwise. ↩

26 The reason Aziraphale, whose vocabulary is considerable, is failing here is because he is studiously avoiding to think of the term "romantic rival". He is not thinking it very loudly. ↩

27 Michael, in fact, had not. Aziraphale learned from Humans - and from Crowley. Michael's lessons in subtlety came from Hastur and Ligur, and still, after decades of coaching on their part, she failed in her attempted take-over of Heaven because it did not occur to either of the demons that they would have to explain that "first you must get Gabriel and his attack dog out of the way" did not mean "wait until Gabriel and Sandalphon are out for Gabriel's morning jog, then put your plan into motion" Michael expected Gabriel, upon his return, to simply accept the fait accompli. Aziraphale, however, never heard that story, or got even an inkling that this is how she was nearly demoted to Earth duty, so it simply does not occur to him that his own cunning vastly outstrips hers. 28 ↩

28 He is, however, entirely correct in his assessment of Gabriel's skill level as compared to Michael's. Make of that what you will. ↩

29 a display he had perfected over centuries of convincing Aziraphale that really, his staying for a few more drinks was already a done deal and the angel's invitation only a formality ↩

30 Still a small price, he'd figured, to pay for more time in Crowley's company ↩

31 157 years, seven months, and twenty-four days. Not that Crowley is counting or anything. ↩

32 Aziraphale did start a new sheet – several times – while waffling about whether he dared to write "Darling Crowley" instead. A few crumpled attempts are still littering his office. ↩

33 He had teased the Angel for it, since it was, when he began, rather informal for the time. At least for supposedly business-like transactions in the social class Aziraphale took his behavioural cues from. Aziraphale, affronted, had pointed out he could hardly claim to be a demon's servant, which, to be fair, all other "proper" options entailed. Crowley, who until then had ended all his notes only with his first initial, had of course responded by signing all his next ones off with increasing deference. "Your servant", turned into "Your humble servant" into "Your obedient servant" into "Your most obedient and humble servant" After that, he had to get creative. When he finally signed one “Your devoted and eternal servant”, he wondered just when that joke had stopped being on the angel and started being on him. Then there wasn’t any occasion for letters, for a few decades, and after the church, he learned that Aziraphale finally bought a phone for the shop. ↩

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been loving all of your reviews SO MUCH!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Hastur scandalizes the archangels, Anathema educates Aziraphale on duck nutrition, Sandalphon earns a reprimand, and Tracy is a gift

"Gabriel! How goes the peacocking?" Beelzebub asks. 

Gabriel looks around in incomprehension and is somewhat relieved to see they are receiving blank looks from all around the table. 

"Your courtship," Beelzebub clarifies with an eye roll. 

"It is still in progress," Gabriel says, flat. 

"I know that, featherbrain, the geas is still there. I'm asking _how_ it'zz progressing."

Gabriel blinks. Courtships among angels are a private matter that, outside of the official bonding announcement, is only discussed among intimates, and even then only in the broadest sense, not the particulars.

Apparently demons are less reserved. 

Well, if they are to successfully parley, there must be some compromise. 

How to phrase it? 

"It is still early days, and Crowley has the unfortunate benefit of more familiarity with Aziraphale's ... preferences," he begins, "but I am confident this is a disadvantage I can overcome." 

Beelzebub acknowledges this with a nod. 

Hastur makes a harrumphing noise of consideration before turning to Gabriel. 

"Well, I'll be rooting for you," he says gruffly.

Gabriel stares in mute astonishment. 

Asking after another Being's courtship is forward – an uninvolved party declaring partiality is unprecedented. 

"Why?" Sandalphon asks, suspicious. 

"I hate Crowley a lot more than I hate Gabriel," Hastur says. 

Sandalphon ponders that for a moment, then nods in acceptance. 

"Thank you, I suppose," Gabriel says stiffly. 

"Don't you go thanking me." 

"Apologies."

"Don't you-," Hastur starts, but a warning look from Beelzebub silences him; "Never mind," he mutters. 

⁂

Aziraphale, having closed up the shop, is hanging up his overcoat and reaching for his housecoat cardigan with motions well-practiced over the decades, about to pull it on and sit down at his desk as he has done over and over pretty much as long as he has owned it.

Then his eyes fall on the quilt and he pauses. It looked oddly exposed, next to the canvas box holding the throw blanket from Gabriel. 

That is the reason he carried the quilt to his more private office and laid it over the back of his chair. Isn't it? 

He pulls his hand back from the cardigan, leaving it on its hanger. 

Looks at what he mostly thinks of as Crowley's Couch, despite the fact that Aziraphale bought it and it is in his office, in his shop. 

Aziraphale sits down in Crowley's customary spot, reaches for the quilt, then pauses again. He hesitates for a moment and, taking a deep breath for courage34, unbuttons and takes off his waistcoat, hanging it over his desk chair, and wraps himself into the blanket only in his shirtsleeves.

He feels quite scandalous as he does so – but it is a bubbly, light sort of scandalous, a softer version of the elation of having asked Michael to miracle him a bath towel. 

The quilt, he notices, smells a little like the Bentley.

Next, he pulls his socked feet out of his shoes and pulls them up onto the couch, as well, wriggling in an attempt to find a position his corporation won't protest too soon.35

He beckons, and his book obligingly slides a few inches across the desk so he can reach it.

⁂

Crowley is hanging upside down in his throne, legs laid upright against the back of it, and taps his fingernails across the box in his lap.

He has been doing that for a few hours, now, and when the sharper noise alerts him his nails are turning into more demonic claws, he abruptly stops.

"Alright, thissss issssn't working," he hisses to himself, and let the soles of his feet slide down the fabric as he bends his knees.

With a forceful push, he launches himself backwards out of the throne36 , landing on his feet. 

Then he takes the box down into the garage before collecting the Bentley.

Crowley doesn't often bother using it, given there's always a spot in front of the building available for him – He only added it to have a space to work on her wards, then kept it because sometimes a demon likes to have a conversation with his car without having to divert mortal attention the whole time. 

"Hold onto this for me, will you?" he says as he gently places the wooden case onto what is usually his seat. 

"Is thiiis a kiiiind of maaagic?" Freddie croons from the radio.

"Yep, spell ingredients."

He leaves the door open, so he'll be able to hear the radio even at a lower volume, before kneeling down to polish her offside front wing. 

"Ooh, loverboy, what are you doin' tonight?" She asks. 

"Just ... thinking. Trying to figure something out. Thought I might as well give you a proper cleaning while I'm at it." 

She lets him do so in silence, for a while, before asking

"Tell me – how do you feel" 

Crowley wrinkles his nose. "Gah, did you have to cut him off mid-line? You _know_ I hate that." 

"Tell me something 'cause I neeed to know," Paul Rodgers requests, impressing the Bentley's insistence on him - it's rare she digs out anything but Freddie.

"Alright!" 

Crowley lifts the cloth in a short gesture of surrender, then begins to ramble. "So. Traditional gift for this one's something to support his angelic mission. A Tool, specific research or practical help with something, usually." He starts rubbing circles into the Bentley's front wing again.

"Except he doesn't really have one of those anymore. And anything that goes with our shared mission, vague as that still is at "protecting humanity from whatever up- and downstairs come up with next", isn't anything I can hand over in front of the Archangel fucking Gabriel." 

She plays a few instrumental chords from "Kind of Magic", next. 

"What's in the case? My old idea for this. More generous interpretation of the traditions. It's got Instructions and ingredients for a spell that I don't think anyone has ever performed. Arcane Theory looks sound to me, though. Didn't let anyone Downstairs know about it, and Aziraphale's the foremost Angelic expert on Human magic and I don't think he ever learned of it either – I got it straight from the human who came up with it, and I don't think he ever got to meet her. I think. Pity, really."

He shakes his head to get himself back on track.

"So it would be very relevant to his interests. Anyway, you can apply it to a notebook or a box or something and then whatever is in there should be not just _safe_ from Upstairs and Downstairs and anyone in between, but _hidden_. Since we'd be keyed into it, we would be the only ones even able to even notice it exists, apart from _maybe_ Her. But well, secrecy is key to the whole idea – Can't exactly hand that over in front of Gabriel now!" 

"You don't fool me," the radio starts, and fair, just because Gabriel would know it exists, and that they could choose to hide something with it, shouldn't negate the spell's effects. The taunt of that might, as such, even be a bonus for a certain brilliantly petty angelic bastard. 

"Aaand it isn't as impressive now. Before, we would have had to avoid them noticing the spike in occult energy, probably timing it with some kind of officially sanctioned project and all. And now the Bookshop's beefed-up wards alone could easily hide us performing the spell from pretty much anyone but Her and _maybe_ Adam, so we can easily make as many of them as we like." 

"You don't fool me," the Bentley starts again, letting the instrumental bit play out in not-so-silent threat.

"Okay, it's. It's a bit. Private. It needs Angelic and Demonic Ingredients, both used with consent of the original owner, prepped carefully. And I kept" He nearly chokes on the words. "I've still got a single feather. Of Mine. From. From Before.37 Was gonna use it for this. Grand romantic gesture and all. Except now it would just be. Silly, because Aziraphale could easily contribute instead."

The Bentley's silence sounds oddly expectant, even as he moves on to the Bonnet side. 

"What?" he finally demands. "I've just laid a deep secret bare, here!" 

"You don't fool me, you don't fool me, you don't fo-"

"Alright, Alright, I admit it, it just doesn't _feel_ right anymore! It was for how we were then, with the arrangement, and the secrecy, and the need for plausible deniability. And that isn't _us_ anymore."

The Bentley seems to contemplate that for a while. 

"You sinners get in line  
Saints you leave far behind" 

This one takes Crowley a bit longer to parse. 

"You mean I should think about going with infernal traditions for this one?" 

He gives her a moment, but no objection comes, so he must have gotten the gist of it right at least. 

"Good idea in theory, but not in practice – Demons would present a weapon, here. Can't give Aziraphale a weapon. Especially not as part of a courtship."

"She's a Killer Queeeeeen," the Bentley protests immediately, turning up the volume for emphasis, too. 

"Of course he can be a right proper Badass!" Crowley concedes. "But just because he's good at fighting doesn't … doesn't _make_ him a fighter. Upstairs wanted him to be one, and he always hated that. Weighed him down. And if I give him a weapon now ... well that's just me reinforcing that same bullshit message all over again, isn't it?"

"What a foooool I've been," the Bentley offers.

"We can be fools together, then," Crowley says, leaning against her.

"It's not easy, love, but you've got friends you can trust," the Bentley starts and lets the chorus of Friends will be Friends play all the way through. 

Crowley takes it for agreement. 

⁂

Several books later, Aziraphale is startled out of his coze by the store's phone ringing. 

He lets it ring out, glaring at it, and nods in satisfaction when it stops. 

Then it starts again. 

How very rude. 

With a huff, he gets up, nearly trips over his shoes, and pulls the receiver to his face. 

"I'm afraid we're closed today," he says, because he has not bothered to look at the clock for anything more specific. 

"I've noticed, but I'm at your door and it's raining, so could you please let me in?" Anathema Device responds.

"Give me a moment, I'm not quite properly dressed!" He drops the receiver back into its cradle, hastily steps into his shoes, pulls on and buttons up the waistcoat, and decides he can do without the overcoat for long enough to spare poor Anathema further soaking. 

"Not quite what I pictured when you said not properly dressed," Anathema says, looking him up and down. 

"I obviously put myself together before opening the door." Then he looks at his sleeves. "Mostly," he adds. 

With a snap of his fingers, her clothes are dry, and she squeaks before thanking him. 

Immediate issue resolved, he collects his coat before leading her to the back room, excusing himself to make some tea. 

"So, what brings you here?" He asks once he's poured them both a cup. 

"Apparently I'm your date for Thursday." 

"Thursday? Oh, the opera!" 

"Indeed, and dinner. Crowley was quite insistent on that."

⁂

The trip to the tailor could almost be classified as an indulgence, but Sandalphon had argued that since the world appeared to be there to stay, there was no need to deny himself the pleasure of a new suit, and it had in fact been a welcome reprieve. 

Their way back to Heaven's official entrance, too, entails a welcome surprise: 

"Aziraphale," he greets, surprised to meet him on the street, accompanied by a human. "To what do I owe the unexpected pleasure?"

"We're buying duck food," Aziraphale says, which mystifies Gabriel. 

"Duck? The Waterfowl?" He has seen the birds, of course, the lake in Battersea Park houses several. They had, however, seemed mostly self-sufficient, not like pets or livestock. 

"Yes," Aziraphale confirms. 

"Can they not feed themselves?" 

"They can't be trusted to make good choices about it," the human interjects. He musters .... her. 

Considers making a quip about them not being the only ones, but thinks better of it. 

"I don't believe we've been introduced?" He says instead, and Aziraphale steps in to rectify that. 

"Gabriel, Sandalphon, meet Miss Anathema Device, a dear friend of mine." 

"Anathema, meet the Archangel Sandalphon, and I'm sure you recall the Archangel Gabriel"

Gabriel is so startled to hear Aziraphale use their titles he barely remembers to hold out his hand to shake in time.

Miss Anathema Device, however, makes absolutely no move to take it. 

"Unfortunately," is all she says. 

"Excuse me?" Gabriel says, confused. 

"No." 

Gabriel blinks, not once, but three times in quick succession – he supposes it is a grammatically correct answer to the phrase, but not one that fits with any social customs he has studied. 

He lets his hand sink, looking to Aziraphale for a cue – but his face is unhelpfully blank.

"I take it you do not remember me?" Miss Anathema Device says. 

"I am afraid I do not," Gabriel admits. 

"I'm not surprised," she says. The corners of her mouth are lifting, but there is no joy in the expression. "When I last saw you, you were a bit busy trying to bully an eleven-year-old child into ending the world to bother paying any attention to a mere human witch."

A witch. Crowley has said something about a witch, hasn't he? Was the demon using her to keep an eye on Aziraphale, then? 

Before he can follow that train of thought, Sandalphon takes one solid step, placing himself between Gabriel and the self-proclaimed witch. He makes to take another, but Aziraphale has mirrored the motion as soon as it begun, interrupting the Archangel's advance. 

"I would advise that you reconsider," is all Aziraphale says, mildly.

The set of his jaw and his shoulders is still enough to make Gabriel move to still Sandalphon, whose hand is crackling on the ethereal plane. 

"Sandalphon," he implores and lays a few fingers on his elbow, trying to apply just enough pressure to be felt through the layers of clothing. 

Sandalphon clenches his fist, but releases the energy, the residue crackling through his grace. 

Aziraphale loosens his posture again. 

"If you'll excuse us," he says, his tone leaving no doubt to the only acceptable answer, and offers his arm to the witch, who takes it. "The ducks won't feed themselves." 

"Of course," Gabriel says. "I will see you soon, Aziraphale. Goodbye, Miss Anathema Device." 

"I doubt it," She responds, puzzling him yet again, but he doesn't try answering, keeping his hand on Sandalphon until they are well and truly gone. 

⁂

Aziraphale keeps a hand on Anathema's, carefully leading her away, looking for a quiet spot for her to take a breather as the adrenaline leaves her system. Sure enough, she starts shaking soon. 

"He was going to try and kill me, wasn't he," she says. It's not much of a question, so Aziraphale doesn't bother trying to deny it, instead concentrates on making a bubble of quiet around them. 

"I would not have let you come to harm," he says instead, and means it. If Sandalphon had turned her to stone, he would have undone it, or made them do it. If he had tried to smite her, Aziraphale would have gotten her out of the line of fire. Somehow. 

"Still bloody terrifying," she argues, now shaking a bit.

"That I will grant you."

He is rather glad to have her to focus on, himself. 

"But if it is any consolation, I will treasure the gift that was the look of complete and utter befuddlement on Gabriel's face when faced with your unyielding irreverence for the rest of my existence." 

Anathema seems to ponder that, for a moment. 

"It sort of is, actually. I may have nearly gotten myself foolishly, recklessly killed, but did so in a way memorable enough I'm going to be fondly remembered until the heat death of the universe. Or beyond."

"Not just for that," Aziraphale reassures her. 

"He really had no idea how to deal with me, didn't he?" 

She snorts, covering her mouth with her hand, but a giggle escapes anyway.

"With a human who knows who and what he is, but doesn't seem the slightest bit impressed with it? Absolutely not." 

Aziraphale laughs as well, and finds that once he starts, he cannot stop, and apparently neither can she. 

They laugh and laugh, his hand on his belly, her hand on her face, on a busy London street where no one is paying them any mind, the other pedestrians swerving around them. 

"Would you like to return to the bookshop, my dear girl?" He offers once their laughter has died down. 

"Can't leave the poor waterfowl to starve," she says. 

Anathema insists on paying for the duck food, so he lets her, and together, they set off for St James, still occasionally bursting into giggles. 

⁂

As disconcerting as the entire encounter was, it at least provided Gabriel with the answer to this week's courtship offering.

Once he has thoroughly chided Sandalphon for his rashness and convinced him that suffering this particular witch to live was in fact the right choice, he immediately puts the plan into action. 

Or tries to. 

"Sir, I am truly sorry, but given the parley ..."

"A requisition form, please," Gabriel repeats, his voice steely.

"Yes, Sir. Right away, Sir." 

⁂

"He's not coming," Anathema says, casually, as if she was answering a question he asked, not interrupting what he had considered a rather comfortable silence as they are feeding the ducks things she has deemed nutritionally appropriate. 

"Who?" Aziraphale tries, but immediately knows it futile. He knows exactly who he's been scanning the crowds for, and he has hardly been subtle.

Anathema just arches an eyebrow, then ignores his attempt at deflection.

"I feel like a walk now that it's cleared up, you said. Why not go feed the ducks, you said." 

He can hear the teasing even if he does not get the particular reference, but it seems gentle enough. 

She lifts her cellular phone. "He's bitching in my inbox about how he can't come here because the geas won't let him."

"Crowley's talking to you? Right now?"

"Duh." 

Aziraphale decides to graciously leave that Americanism unchallenged in favor of gaining more information. 

"What is he saying?" 

Anathema reads out a message, affecting a british accent in the process. 

"I can't even go to the bloody park because I know he might be there! Should have let Angel draw up the contract so the geas was ethereal, not infernal, then I might at least have been able to argue that I was going for the ducks and the habit and if he was there it would be a happy coincidence, or something." 

"Might be there?" Aziraphale quotes, confused. 

"I thought it might help if he didn't know for certain, so I stuck to being deliberately vague. Didn't pan out. And apparently a chance encounter on the street does not qualify as Gabriel seeking you out according to the contract, already tried that, too," she added, quite thwarted. 

"Thank you." 

She tries to wave it off. "It didn't work."

"I still appreciate the attempt," Aziraphale insists. 

"You're welcome, then."

⁂

The doorbell rings. 

Crowley's wards are set against both angelic and demonic intrusions and to repel any uninvited mortals, and the only mortals he ever invites are the ones delivering takeaway, except he hasn't ordered any. 

Which is really just a roundabout way of pointing out that the doorbell is ringing when it really shouldn't be, unless ... 

Crowley jumps to the door, opens it – and finds, to his confusion, Anathema's boyfriend, and the lady who hosted Aziraphale during some of the Aflopalypse.

"You shouldn't be here," he says, startled.

"Well, Newton here was all set on moping about at home tonight until I suggested we go to the Knit night in Loop up in Islington, so we were in the area already and since Anathema's out with Aziraphale, I guessed you'd be ... at loose ends as well, so we thought we'd stop by after." 

Newton attempts to make noises, presumably of protest. 

"Well, _I_ thought we'd stop by," Tracy corrects with a roll of her eyes. "He doesn't bite, silly," she says to Newton, which is entirely uncalled for. 

"Are you sure?" Crowley asks, looks over his sunglasses and lets his fangs grow a little.

Tracy, however, isn't the slightest bit intimidated, while the witchfinder is looking increasingly pale. He'd rather the boy not faint. Or lose control of his bladder. He retracts his fangs again, if only not to antagonize a witch he already owes a favor. 

"I meant that you shouldn't have been able to get in here in the first place. Wait, how did you know where I live, anyway? I never told Shadwell." 

Tracy furrows her brows, her eyes glaze over a little, then she winces. 

"Judging by the headache I am getting trying to remember, I assume I know because Aziraphale did. I've been getting snippets like that. Random knowledge." 

Well, that is as interesting as it is disconcerting. 

Definitely requires investigation, that. 

"I am _not_ at loose ends," he says as he opens the door further. "But come in," he adds, and the witch finder visibly relaxes. 

So the repelling jinx _did_ work on him, but he fought it. The young man rises several notches in Crowley's estimation.

"Pulsifer, was it?" 

"Newton, please."

He leads them through the entryway and the office - rather smugly satisfied at Newton's gasp at the turning wall - past the plants into the living room he uses when he wants to watch Golden Girls.

"Please, sit down", he says, pointing to the couch and moving towards the bar. 

"My knees may be giving me less trouble since I hosted Aziraphale, but If I sit down in that, I'm still not sure I'll make it back up," Tracy says frankly. 

"Looks the part, doesn't it?" Crowley smirks. It's somewhat of an understatement, really - the couch looks like the ghastliest furniture brutalism has to offer. "Try it out. If all else fails, I'll help you out. Cross my heart and hope to discorporate." 

Tracy lowers herself down gingerly, then wriggles into the cushions. 

"Oooh, oh my." 

"I know, right?" Crowley says. "Drink?"

"Don't mind if I do!"

"Just water for me, I'm driving," Newt says. 

"Water, pah. How about a Shirley Temple?" He says, grabbing for the ginger ale already. 

"Water, please," Newt says firmly, and does not waver when Crowley looks at him over the sunglasses. 

Another point to the witchfinder.

"Sparkling or no? Lemon or lime?" 

He _does_ have some standards. 

"Sparkling and lime, thank you." 

"And for the lady?" 

"What else have you got hiding in there?" Tracy asks, a gleam in her eye now. 

"I'm a demon, remember? Sky's the limit." 

"Well, if you've got the Ginger Ale out already, an Irish Buck perhaps?" 

Not a bad idea, so he makes two, neatly dividing a lime between them and the glass of water for Newt. 

"So, knitting?" He asks as he flops down on the couch, glass in hand. 

"Yes, Newton here has been teaching me these past few weeks! I wanted to make sure I'd take to it, first, but since I'm really enjoying it, it was time to invest in some proper quality materials."

"Sensible enough. Aziraphale's been saying we should give knitting a try, ourselves. What are your rates?" He asks Newton, who looks very startled with the question. 

"I don't usually charge," Newton responds.

"Barter system, eh? Old school. I like it," Crowley says, already mentally cataloguing options. 

Him and the angel have picked up quite a few skills, over the centuries, often trading labour or even lessons of their own, and the fact Newton already knows what they are means they won't have to pretend to be human in the process.

Though he does miss the view of Aziraphale chopping wood, sometimes. 

"Uh, no, I just ... don't." 

Crowley boggles. 

"I don't have a certificate or anything – and I've never tried teaching anyone before," Newton says, voice small. "Wasn't sure I'd be any good at it." 

"You've been delightful", Tracy is quick to assure. "And Crowley's right, you deserve some compensation for that. I'll think of something. I've picked up a thing or two over the years." 

⁂

While he does miss Crowley, Anathema makes a delightful companion to both dinner and the Opera, so he doesn't stop to think before inviting her back to the bookshop for after-show drinks. 

"The ending took me by surprise," Anathema admits, glass of wine in hand. "I know the myth, of course, and several adaptations, so I didn't read up beforehand." Then she adds, more quietly: "Trying to get out of the habit of over-preparing for everything" 

Aziraphale gives her an encouraging smile. 

"Crowley doesn't like, as he puts it, the gloomy ones. He will always pick a comedy over a tragedy. And this is one of the adaptations that gives Eurydice more agency, which he always appreciates – between that and the casting choices, I barely had to work to convince him."

"Oh yes, agency for Eurydice! Earlier this year, I saw a Broadway show based on the same myth – It's a bit of a modernized take, so probably not quite your thing …"

"Culturally relevant updates to adaptations of mythology are hardly a novel invention, my dear girl." 

"Bear with me, then," Anathema says, and takes out her cellular phone to play some recordings while Aziraphale has several glasses of wine. 

"A bit too bebop for my taste, I'm afraid," Aziraphale says when she pauses it after a few songs. 

"It _is_ jazzy," Anathema grants; "but really more New Orleans Folk."

Aziraphale looks at her, confounded, unsure what to make of her calm, almost absent-minded correction. 

"What is it?" Anathema asks.

"It's just that I was expecting you to lecture me on my classification error," he admits. 

"Why would I---," Anathema begin, then stops herself. "Ooooh. Of course Crowley is an insufferable music snob. It takes a lot more than that to horrify me - Bebop is at least in the right neighborhood, genre-wise, while my Great-Aunt Dogma still claims nothing that needs electricity qualifies as _real music_."

"And what of the tunes that do?" 

"Trash."

Aziraphale wrinkles his nose – even he, resistant to the rapid change of human culture as he might be, is aware that that is an egregious oversimplification. Then his inebriated mind catches up to the rest of her sentence. 

“Is this, perhaps, the Dogma referred to in Prophecy 2487? I did find it puzzling, but then, I assumed it was talking about the proper noun, not a person.” 

Anathema looks towards the ceiling, mouthing words, then nods. “Yup, that's her.”

“It appears she was aptly named, then,” Aziraphale says, then wonders if he's crossing the bounds of propriety. 

Having studied the Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, he has been privy to a sometimes disturbing amount of Anathema's family history, but to her, he is still a stranger. 

Fortunately, Anathema snorts with a short burst of laughter. “That sure is one way of putting it."

Then she looks off into the distance, pensive. 

"I wonder, sometimes, if Agnes cursed her. Or all of us. Well, not _literally_ cursed;" – she makes some vague circular motions with her hand, he gives her a slightly exaggerated nod to signal his understanding – "But ... our names all tend to be a bit on-the nose.”

"You wonder if it limited you, growing up within those confines?"

"Yeah, that." 

“Crowley changed his name several times, over the centuries.”

"Reinventing himself?" 

"The first time, certainly. Afterwards ... I am not sure how much of it was that, and how much was him being better at choosing a believable human alias."

"You never asked him?" 

There's no judgement in her voice, merely honest puzzlement. 

"Talking _around_ instead of about important things is still a hard habit to shake. Often to our detriment." He will have to pay more attention to that, he resolves. "A.Z. Fell is hardly imaginative. I use it out of necessity, but it is not who I am. I _am_ Aziraphale. Anthony J Crowley was his choice, and it is one he seems to" Aziraphale searches for a word for a moment, then settles on "embody. Though that may merely be my perhaps skewed perception. I should ask him," he muses, then remembers the reason he is drinking with a witch, not a demon, and deflates. "Once I can," he amends. 

Anathema holds up a finger, then rapidly taps into her mobile phone, squinting at it. 

"Just gotta make sure he thinks I'm asking, not you, so the geas doesn't get in the way," she mutters. 

Then she pours the remainder of the wine into their glasses. He takes his, grateful for the diversion, flimsy as it may be. 

Despite them both actively waiting for it, the soft "pling" of her phone manages to startle them both, Anathema even spilling some wine on her blouse. 38

Aziraphale tries not to eye the phone like a starving man a feast, but likely fails, at the latest when she gasps and her eyes widen at what must be Crowley's response.

Anathema clears her throat before reading it out: 

"As the serpent of Eden, I shed my skins more easily, but Aziraphale is the pillar of stability I wind myself around."

Aziraphale, struck, places a hand on his chest.

"Poetry," he sighs, and beams at her. "Thank you."

She just nods, giving him an indulgent smile in return. 

"Would you like me to take care of that?" Aziraphale asks, pointing at the spreading stain on her blouse. 

"That would be lovely," Anathema says, and Aziraphale snaps his fingers. 

Anathema pulls the now-clean fabric away from her skin to examine it. "Amazing. Thank you"

"Would you be amenable to listening to some more of the Broadway show recording?" Aziraphale then asks, pointing at her phone. 

Anathema's smile widens.

"Of course." 

⁂

Crowley meets Shadwell at the Wandsworth Café this week, mostly so that he will stop staring at the walls in his office. He doesn't bother with a copy of the Infernal Times this time – he'd planned gifting him with a collection of back issues39 but Tracy had requested he wait with that until their move was complete – so he simply scrolls through his phone until the Sergeant plonks into the seat across from him.

Shadwell barely bothers with a greeting before he launches straight into his report: Gabriel, since their last phone call, has not been in London for anything but his customary runs, and continues to use Heaven's official entrance instead of miracles for transport, which is not as informative as Crowley hoped for, but not terribly surprising. 

"Is that all?" The Demon asks, well aware the Sergeant is still preoccupied. 

"Well ..." Shadwell hems and haws. 

"Well ...?" Crowley repeats. 

"Where can you get a ring resized without paying an arm and a leg? Figured a flash bastard like you would know." 

"A ring?" Crowley asks, rather enjoying dragging this out. 

"I wanted to give Jezebel Ma's old wedding ring, but I nicked some of her rings to compare, and I'm pretty sure it won't fit her." 

"You got the ring on you?" 

"Yeah." 

"Let's see it, then." 

Crowley holds his hand out, and the Sergeant, gingerly, places a surprisingly tasteful if modest band in his palm. The demon fluidly closes his fingers around it, then opens them again, like a blossoming flower. 

"There you go." 

The Sergeant stares and makes no move to take it back. 

"It'll fit her now," Crowley explains.

"Excuse me?" 

"You're welcome," Crowley adds with a wide grin that shows only a little fang. 

"You used your occult powers on my _ma's wedding ring_?" Shadwell bellows, heedless of any eavesdroppers. 

"Yes," Crowley says, then realizes he just missed a massive opportunity. "Should have put on some extra nipples for the occasion," He adds wistfully.

Shadwell finally reaches out for the ring, then stops himself before touching it.

"You didn't put a curse on it or anythin', did you?" He asks with a rather flattering amount of suspicion.

"Nah, Aziraphale wouldn't forgive me." 

"Alright, then," Shadwell says, mostly reassured.

⁂

"The Surveillanzzze is arranged?"

"Yes, my Lord."

⁂

Something is _nudging_ at Aziraphale's awareness. 

The wards are silent, so he isn't too concerned, but whatever it is is getting closer. It doesn't feel malevolent, just oddly ... familiar. 

It does, however, feel nothing like Crowley.

Nor Gabriel, for that matter. 

Finally he gives in, stands up to look out of the window and finds the source: Madame Tracy is parking her scooter. Both the woman and the vehicle still bear traces of his own grace. 

When she spots him through the glass – so those wards don't apply to her anymore, good to know – she gives him a unrepentant cheerful wave. 

He lifts his own hand and awkwardly wiggles his fingers a little.

Aziraphale makes his way to the front of the store, and already wonders how to explain to her that she will have to leave soon without snubbing her, but she doesn't even try to enter the store. Puzzled, he watches as she instead finds an outdoor seat at the Coffeeshop across the street and unpacks what look like knitting needles, obviously settling in for a lengthy stay.

The next time their eyes meet, she winks at him, and the penny drops at last. There is no need to explain anything because she _already knows_. Crowley must have hired the Sergeant again. 

Aziraphale smiles back, helplessly fond. 

There isn't much she would be able to do, if something went wrong, but he still draws comfort from her blatant display of moral support as he flits about the store.

Crowley will likely be able to guess at the quilt and the box of chocolates being in his office, but something about the way this leaves only signs of Gabriel's courtship in his back room, where their meetings take place, still rubs Aziraphale the wrong way. He finally settles on bringing the pear-shaped lid of the chocolate box to the back room, and leans it against a pile of books up on the credenza, where the rose gold foil can catch the light a little. 

By the time he takes up his own viewing of the bookshop door, Madame Tracy is no longer alone at her table. Her companion, however, is certainly _not_ Sergeant Shadwell. It takes him a moment to place Claude, in such an unexpected context – Aziraphale had no idea the two of them were acquainted. 40

When Gabriel arrives, he seems barehanded at first, though his bearing, when he once more takes up waiting at the door, seems more rigid than usual - more General than business official41. It is disconcerting.

Once Aziraphale concentrates, he notices a heavy shimmer of the Archangel keeping whatever he has brought out of the sight of others.

Crowley, whether by accident or design, parks on the side _not_ blocking the sight line between the coffeeshop and the store, so Aziraphale gets to watch the humans react to his arrival. Tracy's hands are set down, resting, and Claude is leaning forward in his seat. 

The barely noticeable interruption in his swagger to the door betrays the demon - accident, then. 

Claude at least looks embarrassed, shrinking a little in his chair, but Madame Tracy just lifts her knitting at Crowley, who returns a sloppy salute.

The angel barely has a split second to wonder at the meaning of the exchange before Crowley straightens and _tenses_ , his knuckles going white around the handles of the bag he is carrying.

Aziraphale is two large steps towards the door before he even notices he's gotten to his feet. 

Gabriel lifts both of his hands in a placating gesture. 

Oh. 

Of course. If an Archangel in military posture put Aziraphale ill at ease, it would certainly bring Crowley to a state of high alert. 

He opens the door to usher him in. 

"I do not appreciate how you seem to be making a habit of upsetting my friends, Gabriel," Aziraphale says. 

"My apologies, Aziraphale. I have, of course, reprimanded Sandalphon. It will not happen again."

There are quite a few things Aziraphale could say in response to that, but he has more pressing concerns, or rather one in particular, so he settles for a curt: "See that it doesn't." 

Aziraphale gestures for him to get inside. 

"And do drop the camouflage once you're inside, Gabriel, the store is shielded from prying eyes," he adds.42

He doesn't bother checking if his instructions are followed – Crowley is passing him, set on following Gabriel inside.

Aziraphale stills him with a finger on his upper arm; the demon immediately turns to him, pivoting about the fulcrum of that point of contact.

The door falls closed as Aziraphale looks Crowley over, can, from this close, watch the demon do the same and then give him a slow blink from behind the sunglasses before he makes to pull them off. 

Thusly reassured Crowley is well, or as well as the circumstances allow for, he reluctantly releases him with the intent to lead the way to the back room. 

He stops in his tracks instead. 

"You said to drop the camouflage," Gabriel says, and his posture is immediately explained. He is wearing a baldric, carrying a shield on his back. 

It should look incongruous, over his modern business suit, something in Aziraphale's hind brain43 notes, but his mind is mostly occupied with the fact Gabriel has brought down something from the _Heavenly Armory_. 

"You should have left it off to begin with," Crowley says.

"It has been my impression modern humans do not usually wear these anymore, I would have stood out"

"Stood out alright. Tempted nearly every human on this street attracted to men and several who didn't know they were," Crowley says. 

"Excuse me?" 

"Listen, I wouldn't touch you with a ten foot pole, but even I can appreciate the aesthetics of ..." He gestures along the entire line of Gabriel's corporation with the hand holding the sun glasses, the way the battle attire emphasizes his broad shoulders, the leather contrasting with the crisp grey of his suit and well, perhaps Aziraphale can see Crowley's point. "That." 

Gabriel looks down on himself, puzzled, then apparently decides ignoring the demon's words is the better part of valour and turns to Aziraphale. 

"May I proceed to your back room?" 

"You may," Aziraphale grants, and exchanges another look with Crowley as they follow. 

Gabriel unbuckles the baldric – by hand, Aziraphale notices – and takes the shield off his back, formally holds it out to Aziraphale with both hands. 

"I do not claim to understand what has transpired, but your protection of Her Creation has been unwavering, and I believe in this you must have been right. So Earth's angelic defender should have a shield. Will you accept it?" 

_Your protection of Her Creation has been unwavering_ reverberates through Aziraphale's mind. 

Once, this praise – the vindication of hearing the Archangel Gabriel say _you must have been right_ – would have been everything to him. 

"I accept this shield," he says, takes it. 

Aziraphale runs trembling fingers over the designs on the shield, then pulls on the baldric, feels it mold itself to his corporation and his grace on its own, watches the baldric close itself on his chest, knows without looking that the shield's handle will now perfectly suit him, that he will be able to call on the shield with a thought no matter where he has left it.

He does not have to unfasten it – when he decides to take it off, the leather slips out of the buckle as he reaches for it, like an extension of his body and will and grace. 

The flaming sword used to feel like that, back in Eden, before he ceded ownership. 

Once, receiving this would have meant everything. 

Now it pales in comparison to what he has found on Earth – but the acknowledgement still warms him. 

Gives him hope. 

For the first time he can remember, he gives the Archangel Gabriel a genuine smile.

"Thank you, Gabriel," He says warmly.

Then he sets the shield aside and turns to Crowley.

The poor dear looks rather petrified, his eyes wide, the fingers around the handles of his canvas bag again clenched. 

Aziraphale is content to wait him out.

Gabriel is not – and demonstratively clears his throat. 

Of course he would pick up that aggravating habit from mortals but not know what a book is called, Aziraphale will later think.

Right now, he is too busy being entirely _livid_. 

" _Gabriel!_ " Aziraphale all but spits. 

The Archangel, rather satisfyingly, flinches. 

Crowley, too, is jolted out of his stupor, and bursts into motion.

"You'd been talking about wanting to give knitting a try," he says, and Aziraphale does remember mentioning that.

Crowley pulls out several pairs of knitting needles out of his bag, and spreads them out on the table while Aziraphale looks on, a little puzzled. 

"Bit of a sampler set, this, so you can try out which style you work best with," Crowley continues as he lays them out – Metal, wood and bamboo, long, short and double-pointed, a few connected with little cords. "Newton – you know, Anathema's boyfriend? – has been teaching Tracy, and is happy to take us on, too. They're meeting twice a week until she and the Sergeant move – Tuesdays or Fridays, your choice, I'll take the other for now," Crowley finishes as he adds a few balls of yarn to finish off the charming tableau.

 _For now_ catches on in Aziraphale's mind. Of course. Once this mess is over, they can attend the lessons together, spend time with both each other and their friends. Now that they are out of pre-arranged plans, Crowley is still making sure that he won't be too lonely. 

"I fail to see," Gabriel interrupts, "how human ... handicraft supplies qualify as an appropriate offering for this stage of courtship." 

"I fail to see how your opinion on that matters," Aziraphale, whose patience with Gabriel is wearing thin, retorts. 

"The contract stipulates suitable gifts according to our traditions. These," Gabriel says, pointing at the table, "neither support your angelic mission nor are, if we go by the demonic codex, a weapon to secure or advance your position." The Demonic codex? How did Gabriel get his hands on that? Even Aziraphale has never read it in full, only knows bits and pieces from discussing the differences between the codices with Crowley. "If Crowley has not met this condition ...." Gabriel lets the sentence hang for dramatic effect. 

Has he? a panicking part of Aziraphale wonders.

Crowley, however, doesn't seem the slightest bit rattled by Gabriel's insinuations.

"Aziraphale is a protector, a Guardian. Keeping others safe and warm is what he _does_ , I've known that since the first time we first met," Crowley says – of all the times to reference the sword! The audacity, the Cheek! "Knitting for others, or teaching them to do the same, for Aziraphale will often pass his own skills on once he has acquired them, does exactly that. As such, I argue that yes, Knitting supplies do support Aziraphale's mission as, as you put it, Earth's Angelic protector."

"I retract my objection," Gabriel says. 

"And if you think _these_ cannot double as weapons" Crowley continues, undeterred, tapping cords with the strength to garrote an adult, metal points whose delicacy hide their strength, bamboo that, once splintered, can easily pierce skin – "If they have to?" 

A short glance at Aziraphale, a plea to understand, and yes, he does understand now what Crowley is not saying out loud. 

_I know you don't **want** to, and I hope you will not **need** to, but they will not fail you should you ever **have** to._

He lets his eyes fall closed in a slightly-too-long blink, drops his head a little – a minute nod.

"Then you lack imagination," Crowley concludes, a smirk on his face as if their little interplay had been nothing but a dramatic pause and oh, Aziraphale _adores_ him. 

Aziraphale firmly calls his galloping heart to order. 

Unsurprisingly, he fails. 

Gabriel, meanwhile, has found the box of chocolates he brought two weeks ago, still mostly full. 

"It seems you are exemplifying the virtues of patience and temperance, Aziraphale. I am glad to see it." 

It is meant as a compliment, Aziraphale knows it. He does. That doesn't take the sting out of the words. 

Crowley's upper lip twitches as if to bare his teeth in a snarl, but the demon catches himself. 

"Gotta dash now, I'm afraid," he says, his canines a little pointier than usual, and Aziraphale wants to protest, but doesn't. "If you're not ready to leave, Gabriel, I can return later for my share of time with Aziraphale," he adds, cluing Aziraphale in. 

The Archangel, given the timing, will undoubtedly assume Crowley feels he needs that time alone with him to entice Aziraphale back into sin, and will be loath to give him the opportunity ...

"Unfortunately I, too, have matters to attend to," Gabriel says, falling for it. 

"Thank you, Crowley," Aziraphale says, then adds: "Goodbye, Gabriel." 

"Goodbye, Aziraphale," the Archangel responds. 

"Close up behind you, will you?" He asks. 

"Sure thing, no customers," Crowley promises as he puts his sunglasses back on his face, and they leave. 

The doorbell, it seems, has barely stopped ringing from their departure when it gets stirred up again.

But Crowley has promised no customers, so who –

"Coo-ee, Mr Aziraphale!" Tracy singsongs, and he nearly wilts in relief.

"A moment!" he says, but despite his best attempts, he cannot quite convince his legs to carry him to the front of the shop. 

She pokes her head in the back room. "Ah, good, you're here, I was worried I'd have to figure out how to knock on the register while averting my eyes. Looking straight ahead while walking past was hard enough!" 

"Knock ... on the register?" He is failing to follow. 

"I still know your private office is behind there, dearie, and apparently I can just look and walk past some of both your and Crowley's wards now."

There _is_ a soft ward line at the register, just a little "nothing to see here" to discourage passing customers (and Archangels) from considering anything behind there worth their attention.

"Thank you for your consideration, then," Aziraphale says weakly, then remembers his responsibilities as a host. "I should make some tea," he says, and tells his legs very firmly that now is not the time for another mutiny, they have a guest. 

"You look like I should be making you some tea, luv," Tracy says. 

They compromise and make it together.

⁂

As Gabriel walks back to his rendezvous point with Sandalphon, the memory of Aziraphale's smile keeps returning, unbidden, to his thoughts.

It should be bothersome, yet it makes his own corporation's mouth want to curl to echo it even now, warmth spreading through its ribcage, his grace gently aflutter. 

Perhaps there is more to this courtship than means to an end, after all. 

An end that he, if he is honest, is not sure of anymore, if he ever was. 

He has been scrambling. Flailing. They all have been. Their efforts, since the failed apocalypse - between the Airfield Disaster and the even worse disaster that was the failed executions - were about trying to restore a status quo that was already utterly lost. 

It was Uriel who, after Michael had finished her report, asked, - well, _tried_ to ask - "What ... now?"

That gap alone, where a verb should have gone44, felt more threatening than any word that could have filled it, all their attempts to bridge it insufficient - the empty space seemingly vast enough to swallow Heaven whole.

It's unfathomable.

It could even – and the Archangel is truly starting to loathe that word – be called ineffable.

The only thing Gabriel knows for certain is that he still has no answers – and if the Almighty does, She isn't providing them. 

34 Even Angels can be susceptible to the placebo effect ↩

35 Aziraphale very much does not think of how Crowley usually arranges his limbs here, it's unlikely to be helpful in arranging his own, after all. Nor at all conducive to his plans for the evening. ↩

36 The throne's Fear of Crowley overrules physics easily, so it does _not_ topple over. ↩

37 Much like talking of Lunch when angels did not have to eat, and afternoons before the Beginning of Time, Crowley's very drunk description of his Fall did not hold any claim to literal accuracy, but was rather an attempt at transliterating his experience into the closest equivalent human-intelligible terms available. In short, he tried to make it relatable. As a Being to whom the Laws of Physics represent loose guidelines instead of irrefutable facts, and therefore a somewhat skewed frame of reference for concepts of speed and distance, he did not realize that a "million lightyear freestyle dive" missed that particular benchmark spectacularly. The way this incomprehensibly large unit short-circuits the human's ability to imagine entirely, however, relates the scope of the experience rather nicely – which is to say that even once Crowley acknowledged that absolutely no amount of wing flapping and screamed pleas to Her would prevent his impact, there was still a tremendously daunting amount of Fall left. For lack of literally anything else to do apart from panic, he plucked three not-yet blackened feathers from his wings and imbued them with as much protective intent as he could muster. Not that he expected it to work – when he dragged himself out of the pool of sulfur, one of them had blackened, the second mostly dissolved, and he was truly surprised to find the third still intact and fully angelic. ↩

38 Aziraphale's wine glasses are not used to being handled by mortal entities. ↩

39 delivered, of course, with a side of massive teasing about the fact a demon had been reading it in front of him for years] ↩

40 They had not been until very, very recently - after a short squabble for the outdoor table with the best view of the bookshop door, they soon came to realize they were here for the same reason and promptly joined forces. ↩

41 "Oh my, Is that Gabriel? I want to climb him like a tree."

"That urge will die the moment he opens his mouth" 

"That's what gags are for, sweetie." 

"Usually I'd be the first to agree, but he told the darling Angel to lose the gut and the poor dear has been fretting frightfully about it."

"Aaand it's dead." ↩

42 It is _now_. Aziraphale had, of course, thoroughly warded all the window panes as soon as they had been put in - and then a human had watched his communications with heaven through the letter flap. An embarrassing oversight, really. He has overhauled the wards since, thoroughly closing that gap in his security. ↩

43 or whatever its angelic equivalent ↩

44 Which was all the more jarring in Enochian, which, like Hebrew and Gaelic on Earth, absolutely cannot do without a verb to form a coherent phrase - perils of languages of power ↩


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Crowley takes a precise slither down memory lane, Aziraphale makes a phone call that outlasts the current Guinness World Record, and Gabriel takes advice from a demon

When Tracy steps into the bookshop the next day, Newton in tow, Aziraphale senses a rather familiar occult impression mingling with the traces of his grace. A short inspection reveals the source to be her ... wedding ring.

"Tracy!" He says, and is surprised to find himself actually a little hurt by the discovery.

"Sorry, dearie, I couldn't just invite _one_ of you, and Crowley said I can't invite _both_ of you just now, and we set the appointment a few weeks back, when we gave notice. It wasn't a big party, just a quick trip to the registry office. I was rather glad Crowley convinced Anathema to stay a while longer, actually, else we'd have had to find a different second witness."

"I could have asked Gabriel along if he insisted on not granting me enough time with Crowley to attend a dear friend's wedding, for Heaven's sake!"

"Do you really think that would have been a good idea?" Tracy asked.

Aziraphale tries to picture it - Gabriel at a human wedding, where everyone but the registrar knew who and what he was. He had already failed to cope with Anathema, who only had the airfield memories to draw from. Faced with not just her, but also Newton – somewhat of an unknown quantity, Tracy, who retained a yet-to-be-determined amount of Aziraphale's knowledge, but little of his trepidation regarding the Archangel45, and Shadwell, ready to defend her from Satan Himself?

"You'd have eaten him alive," he concludes fondly.46

"And don't you forget it!" She declares.

Aziraphale reaches out with both hands and she takes them.

"Best wishes to you both," He declares sincerely, and adds a blessing for lasting health for them both for good measure.

Tracy wiggles her fingers when he lets go.

"Apologies, Newton," Aziraphale then adds, quite embarrassed by his own rudeness in ignoring his other guest so entirely. "It is lovely to see you again."

"Likewise, and no worries – Tracy outshines me any day, but even more so on this one," Newton says gamely.

"And where is the groom?"

"He's taking the opportunity to compare instruments and discuss occultist history with Anathema."

Aziraphale, uncertain of what is actually needed, has spread out all the accoutrements he received from Crowley on the back room table, which barely left room for the tea.

"How sweet, he got you a full trial set!" Tracy exclaims.

"Trial set?" Aziraphale asks.

"Well, what you work best with needles is a matter of personal preference. You can use straight needles, or circular ones, for flat work. In the round, you have the choice between again using circular ones, or double pointed needles," Newton explains, pointing out the needles as he goes. "The same goes for materials. Some people like their needles very smooth, others find that too slippery, their stitches sliding off, and prefer something with more grip. Some knitters like to vary based on what kind of yarn they're working with."

Aziraphale nods.

"And when I explained that to Crowley, he bought himself a pair of needles in nearly every possible variation to figure out what he likes best as efficiently as possible."

That _does_ rather sound like the demon.

"I think those might be his, actually," Tracy says. "None missing that I see, so he must have replaced whatever he decided to keep when he picked up your yarn – I'll have to ask him on Friday!"

Aziraphale finds himself warmed by the idea of at least learning on the same needles as Crowley, if they cannot do it in the same room, at the same time, quite yet.

So when Newton asks him which he would like to try first, his response is perhaps a trifle predictable: "Which of them did Crowley start with?"

Newton shows him how to cast on with nimble fingers, then watches, patiently, as Aziraphale attempts to replicate the process rather more clumsily.

Then he teaches him the basic knit stitch in the same manner: First he demonstrates, then lets Aziraphale try it for himself, gently correcting where needed.

"Stab him, strangle him, pull out his entrails and then push him off a cliff," Tracy singsongs cheerfully as she does a demonstrative knit stitch of her own.

"And who, I wonder, is _he_?" Aziraphale asks, though he has to admit it does make for a useful mnemonic.

"I'll give you two hints: he's got purple eyes and you should stop trying to give him a fair chance and reject him already."

Aziraphale does not dignify that with a response. He needs to concentrate on his knitting.

Tracy gives him a few rows before she starts making conversation again.

"So, Newton, what with Crowley's and Aziraphale's courtship, and me being Mrs Shadwell now, soon you'll be the only one left – When are you going to propose to our darling witch?"

"Oh, we decided weeks ago she will be the one to propose," Newton says with a smile that might just be called dreamy. Then he hastily adds: "If we ever get there, that is."

"How modern!" Tracy says, delighted.

"That too, I suppose," Newton grants.

"Oh?" She asks, a clear invitation to elaborate.

"It ... rattled her, that Agnes assumed we were already married."

"And when was this?" Aziraphale asks after quickly reviewing his memory of the prophecies and coming up blank.47

"We got a message, the day after the Airfield," Newton begins.

Aziraphale stops knitting, lifting his head and opening his mouth to ask another question, but is cut off before he can begin to voice it.

"That's Anathema's story to tell – or not to," Newton says firmly.

Aziraphale nods, suitably chastened, and Newton continues: "The message was addressed to Mr and Mrs Pulsifer though."

He flushes rather impressively, but, just as impressively, doesn't falter. It must have been rather disconcerting, for the poor young man, to learn their sexual encounter had literally been predicted centuries ago.

He wonders if Anathema shared the specific prophecy with Newton – and if it would have helped or made things worse for him to learn that, even if in a flattering manner, the knowledge has been passed on to anyone who read the book since, up to and including the woman's own mother and a literal angel.

"Back in Agnes' time, we would have had to be married by then, of course, but now we – _she_ has a choice."

"And after a lifetime dictated by prophecies, she is still not accustomed to choices," Aziraphale says, understanding.

"So you're leaving it up to her if – or when – she becomes Mrs Pulsifer." Tracy finishes warmly and with approval, kissing Newton on the cheek.

"Why would she take my name at all? Especially if I could be _Newton Device_ instead?"

"Because if you do, Mr S will be referring you as Private Device forevermore," Tracy predicts impishly, and Aziraphale can already hear it in his mind – and the Sergeant would do it with an entirely straight face, too.

Aziraphale is struggling to maintain his own, but it wouldn't do to encourage her – or discourage Newton, who visibly pales. He looks back at his knitting instead, and manages a whole three stitches while Newton ponders this.

"Worth it," He finally declares, giving Aziraphale an excuse for a warm and wide smile of his own, after all.

Then the corner of Newton's mouth twitches and he blushes again as he adds: "After all, I'd be _Anathema's_ Private Device."

Tracy's jaw drops, then she guffaws hard enough to drop a stitch.

⁂

Crowley is grooming his wings.

They don't exactly _need_ it.

The lustre of his plumage is, at this point, only matched by the shine of the Bentley, who by now won't let him near her without blaring the intro of "Get Down, Make Love", on repeat, at the highest volume she can manage. 48

He just needs to keep his hands busy while his mind works through this rather delicate problem.

Gabriel got a real smile out of Aziraphale, last time, and told him many things the angel had longed to hear from Heaven for millennia.

Aziraphale always wanted to believe in Heaven.

Likely _still_ wants to believe in Heaven.

And while shooing Gabriel out of the shop when he put his foot in his mouth had seemed the best option at the time, lest he hurt the angel further, Crowley now wonders if this only played into the Archangel's hands by stopping him from reminding Aziraphale of his – and Heaven's – more unpleasant, capricious side. His own battered heart and essence are a paltry offering compared to the Idea of the Embrace of the Heavenly Host, false though it may prove, and his planned gift is so obvious, so sentimental, it sacrifices all remaining plausible deniability.

Crowley is simply not sure he can risk that, now – If maybe he should rather choose something else, play it safe.

 _Safer_ , at least, since underrepresenting his commitment might also drive Aziraphale into Heaven's waiting wings!

The Bentley was all for showing his hand, of course, and he expected that, but she's also been entirely unwilling to entertain his concerns of scaring Aziraphale off.

Surprisingly obtuse of her, given she'd actually been _there_ for Aziraphale's "You go too fast for me", but he supposes he should cut her some slack – like any being of discerning judgement, she adores Aziraphale, but she hasn't gotten to spend any time with him in weeks, and she is even less patient than him.

⁂

When Newton leaves, Tracy hangs back for a moment.

"Any further suggestions to offer on how I should handle Gabriel?" Aziraphale asks archly.

"Oh, I have quite the list, dearie!" she declares. Then her tone turns penitent. "I'll save it for when you're actually asking for it, though."

"I'm glad to hear it," Aziraphale says, mollified.

"But ...".

"But?" Aziraphale prompts, wary now.

"What _are_ you going to do?" She asks.

The question hits him right in the chest, or so it feels.

He has, over the past few weeks, spent a considerable amount of time pondering what Gabriel might do, or what Crowley might do, and how he ought to respond.

Not once, however, has he considered the possibility to _do_ anything about his situation himself. Millennia of ingrained habit, he supposes. Even the idea of the letter had come from the intention to give Crowley more information on which the demon could base _his_ choices.

But what of his own?

"Research," he announces. "I am going to do research."

"I'll leave you to it, then," Tracy says with a knowing smile on her face, kisses his cheek, and follows Newton out the door.

Aziraphale locks the door, then goes straight for his desk and pulls out the contract.

⁂ Crowley folds away his wings with a sigh, picks up the music box his thoughts are still whirling around. He winds it up, sets it down on the accompanying folder, opens the lid, then rests his head on his arms to be at eye level with the little figurine as it spins.

The apple blossom turns, bumblebees attached with thin wires orbiting it, but Crowley stares at them unseeing as he casts his mind back to the first time he – or rather _she_ – heard the melody.

_Warlock had just learned to walk, if still in a wobbly and unsteady manner._

_This, of course, did little to stop the little Hellspawn from trying to run, but neither, to his credit, did his frequent falls._

_Eager to show his skills off to the kindly gardener, who was always heavy-handed and enthusiastic with the praise49, he had toddled ahead of his Nanny and toward Aziraphale-as-Francis as quickly he could, and made it only half of the way before he toppled._

_Francis hissed a sharp intake of breath and bustled to scoop him up immediately._

_Warlock, predictably, began wailing._

_"He's not actually injured, you know," Nanny Ashtoreth pointed out primly._

_"He's upset!" Francis declared, scandalized at her apparent carelessness._

_"Because you're making a fuss. He's still taking his cues from us. If you'd left him be, he'd have clambered back up and toddled right into your arms."_

_Warlock was still crying, so Francis tried to hand him to his Nanny, who stepped back._

_"Oh no, you don't! This outfit has remained snot-free for three days now, I refuse to ruin that streak because you had to swoop in and rile him up!"_

_Francis awkwardly settled Warlock on his hip and dug for a handkerchief to attempt to curtail the mess, but being poked in the face with one did little to calm the boy. Francis rocked him and made a few noises that Nanny Ashtoreth supposed were him trying to hum, but the overbite got in the way._

_Finally he harrumphed – which was unfairly adorable – and changed tactics._

_He sang._

_With pitch-perfect solfège._

_Because of bloody course he did._

_Warlock was startled out of crying and stared at Francis, transfixed, and Nanny Ashtoreth couldn't blame him._

_She was doing the same thing._

_At the end of the song, Francis set Warlock down, and patted him on the head._

_"Off you go, little scamp," he said._

_Warlock did not go. Warlock clutched at his leg instead._

_Realizing she needed to come up with some cover for her staring, impossible to miss even with the sunglasses, she grasped for something to say and arrived at_

_"And here I thought I'd found every lullaby known to man."_

_He gave a chuckle. "Known to_ Man _, perhaps."_

_She lifted her eyebrows over her sunglasses, tilted her head._

_"One of Nannerl's later ones," he elaborated, his put-on accent fading a little as familiar grief and anger slipped into his voice; "I don't think she ever wrote it down."_

_"I see," Nanny Ashtoreth said weakly, entirely uncertain how else to respond to the revelation that Aziraphale knew a lost composition of Mozart's sister by heart._

_The angel seemed satisfied, at least._

_"Well, young Master Warlock, shall we greet the bumblebees?"_

_Warlock grasped his offered hand and held the other out to his Nanny._

_She took it._

The next day, she returned to the craftsman she'd commissioned previously to make a proper music box befitting the Antichrist, and then, in a fit of sentimentality that could only be accused by the rapidly approaching apocalypse, took things even further.

The phone rings, startling him out of his recollections. He pulls off the receiver and silently swears whoever is on the other end better make it worth his while.

"Yes?" He barks impatiently.

"Hello Crowley," Aziraphale says, making Crowley jump to his feet with aimless energy.

"Aziraphale? What's wrong?"

"Nothing, nothing at all!" says the Angel. Too fast.

"If you're in danger–"

"I am not. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you, my dear," Aziraphale says earnestly.

"Then what did you mean to do?" Crowley asks, unnecessary heart still pounding. Is he about to be formally rejected?

"Just to … talk to you," Aziraphale says. "We haven't gotten to, in a while."

"But the contract ..."

"Stipulates you can't seek me out. It at no point forbids me from contacting you."

Crowley mentally reviews the contract and has to concur.

"Finding a loophole? I've been a bad influence on you, Angel," he declares with a smirk.

"It appears you have! I hope you're proud," Aziraphale says, mock-chiding.

"I am." Crowley says, no teasing at all, and sits back down in his chair.

⁂

"How'zzzz your zzzzuit coming along?", Beelzebub asks, and for a moment Gabriel wonders if they are keeping tabs on him.

Fortunately, it occurs to him they are asking after the courtship, not his sartorial acquisitions, in time to prevent a diplomatic faux pas.

He gives the question some thought.

How the demon's gestures are big and flashy and impressive, but he never bothers to say please and thank you, or to ask Aziraphale's permission before sitting down in his space. How the quilt was brought in a paper bag so unremarkable Aziraphale let him keep it to transport that human's package, while his own canvas box still has pride of place in the back room, and he has yet to even lay eyes on the demon's declaration of intent.

The way Aziraphale, even when showing preference for the demon's offering, doesn't thank him, either - but always makes sure to observe those courtesies with Gabriel himself.

The warmth in that smile.

And of course it had been most telling when Crowley all but dragged him out of the store, last time.

"As I predicted, my patience and diligence are steadily reducing his initial lead."

Beelzebub musters him thoughtfully, but nods in acceptance.

"Surely having full access to the principality's files should by now have allowed you to easily overtake a demonic _field agent_?" Dagon drawls. "Unless, of course, the files are compromised," she muses.

Any and all documents filed by Aziraphale the presumed traitor had in fact been considered of dubious veracity, but only now does it occur to Gabriel that he has not re-examined that assessment even though he should have, now that he knows better.

Aziraphale would never falsify official paperwork, and as such his files _will_ in fact contain invaluable intel. He should have been consulting the Heavenly Archives for weeks now.

A somewhat embarrassing oversight – and one he has no intention to broadcast.

He settles on "His reports do contain applicable information."

This much, he feels, he can state with confidence.

Dagon tilts her head at that while Beelzebub's eyes narrow.

⁂

"And how was Opera and dinner with book girl?"

"Oh, it was lovely, I am ever so glad you arranged it!"

"Said I'd take care of things, didn't I?"

"Anathema showed me some recordings from a delightful Bebop musical, afterwards, and apparently they are taking that performance on the roads, next year?"

Crowley tries to offer to take him – of course he does – but the geas stills his tongue before he can. Bless it.

"On tour, angel, they're taking it on tour," He corrects instead, tries to hit his usual tone of fond exasperation. It likely comes out a bit strained.

"Perhaps… we could go see it together?" Aziraphale asks. "I know you don't much like the gloomy ones, but she said it's still a hopeful take, and–"

"I'd like that," Crowley can admit.

"Lovely! Speaking of lovely outings, Have you been to see Mimi's exhibit yet?"

⁂

Beelzebub, Lord of the Flies, is playing the harp.

This by itself is not, in fact, unusual. They were the first nonhuman to have picked it up, which makes humanity's continued perception of it as a typically _angelic_ instrument all the more amusing to them. 50

The instrument's frame is made of bone – a trophy, taken from the remains of an angel's corporation several millennia ago – and has held strings made of guts of many an unfortunate human51 over the centuries.

They have played larger harps, but none have quite satisfied their demonic essence the way this comparatively small one does.

"Lord Beelzebub?"

A disposable demon has presumed to address them mid-playing? Not even the Dukes would dare.

"You bezzzt have a good excuzzzze for interrupting me," they announce.

"I have been tasked with inquiring if you are feeling all wrong, your Disgrace"

"Becauzzzzze?" They ask, one eyebrow raised.

"Because you were playing in a major key, your disgrace. And…"

"And?" They repeat, impatiently.

"And what appears to be a show tune, your Disgrace."

The disposable demon goes up in flames, but _bless_ him and whoever sent him in the first place – Dagon, more likely than not.

They _have_ been coaxing an obnoxiously cheerful show tune out from the strings.

Lord Beelzebub sets aside the harp, then taps a claw-tipped finger on the arm of their throne expectantly.

Several of their flies obediently line up and they begin to inspect them – specifically the iridescent shimmer of their wings.

⁂ "I hope it is alright? That I called?" Aziraphale asks after a short pause in which Crowley has collected a glass of scotch.

"More than alright." Crowley says, tries to say something more encouraging than that, finds his tongue stilled by the geas and takes a small sip. 52

"I considered stopping by, but this seemed safer, as Gabriel has likely rectified his previous lack of spying efforts."

Crowley makes a derisive noise at that, he can't help it, and Aziraphale laughs.

"You should have seen your face, my dear! You looked ever so thwarted! Almost disappointed!

"He ought to live up to his position as my rival, now, shouldn't he?" Crowley said, twiddling with his phone cord. 53

"And there you went, giving him advice on how to improve!"

"Oi, are you accusing me of committing an _act of charity_?"

"Against an Archangel, no less!"

Crowley can hear the laughter in his voice, only has to close his eyes to see the twinkle sure to be found in the Angel's, and he grabs his glass to take another, larger sip so he doesn't say something stupid.

It is Aziraphale who fills the silence instead.

"It is truly quite absurd, you're not that far away, and I just saw you last week, and I know that I'll see you soon, but ... I quite miss you, dear."

Crowley’s traitorous heart picks up.

"I miss you too, Angel."

⁂

When Sandalphon steps up up to the designated park bench, he is surprised to see Gabriel already within his visual range. Gabriel's speed average is consistent within predictable variants, and his own arrival is timed so he should already stand ready, in sight of his fellow Archangel, before he turns the corner of his last round.

It is their compromise, as Gabriel thinks the humans might find it unsettling for him to wait there for the entire time he exercises.

Today, Gabriel must have either been delayed significantly during his second-to-last round or increased his overall speed.

"Gabriel," Sandalphon greets him, but Gabriel is still jogging in place instead of, as usual, moving into the corporation cool-down exercises. "Do I still have time to go another round?" Gabriel asks.

"What delayed you?"

"Oh no, seems like my corporation just has an extra boost in ... zest, today."

Gabriel is slightly increasing the frequency of his bounce-in-place.

This is ... anomalous. Sandalphon does not recall a previous such occurrence.

"So, can I go another round?" he asks, his hands spreading in emphasis.

"If your average speed does not decline significantly, yes," he responds, because answering Gabriel's queries comes first.

Gabriel is back on the trail before Sandalphon has even finished his sentence.

"Thanks!" Gabriel yells from a bit along the way.

Sandalphon, pensive, watches Gabriel as he first fades out of human sight, then his own.

⁂

Crowley's mobile phone starts vibrating against his desk, again, and this time more empathetically – as if frustrated by his insistent hitting of the snooze button.

"I hate to cut this short, Angel, but I'm going to have to get going soon if I'm to make it to Tracy on time."

"But didn't she say – oh dear, it's Friday afternoon _already_?"

"It is," Crowley says, rather surprised himself.

"Before you leave ..." Aziraphale begins.

"Yes?" Crowley asks, trying not to sound as breathless as he feels.

"Do I get a hint as to my next gift?" The angel wheedles.

"All I'm telling you is that it's sitting on my desk right now," Crowley says with a smile and runs his hand over the wood of the music box.

⁂

Heaven's Archives are everything Aziraphale's bookshop isn't.

Brightly lit to every last corner, everything is tidy and designed to be easily navigated.

Along one of the walls, shelves are filled with perfectly uniform, clearly labeled and sorted file folders all the way up to the ceiling – which is a long, long way up.

Gabriel walks up to the card catalogue with large strides that echo in the vast space. "Anything pertaining to music in the reports of the Principality Aziraphale", he requests, and a drawer pops open to spit out a index card in perfectly neat, uniform printing. 54

The filing cabinets that line the opposite wall appear to be white-stained wood. The drawer handles are shiniest of chrome, and never show a single smudge or fingerprint, and, when pulled, open the drawers with the platonic ideal of a drawer- sliding noise.

The wood grain is just a bit too neat, too symmetrical - and identical on every cabinet.

Well, _nearly_ every cabinet.

The filing cabinets holding the reports from the Principality Aziraphale, longest acting field agent on Earth, are the exception to prove the rule.

The wood grain looks a little more natural. The handles are always a bit warm to the touch, instead of the cool metal feeling of the others. Sometimes, when one pulls out a drawer, one can hear the slightest click of balls in the ball-bearing drawer slides.

It used to annoy Gabriel. Further proof of Aziraphale's failure to fall in line with Heaven's standards.

The urge to sneer is curiously absent this time, but he certainly has no time to re-examine his feelings. At least not beyond appreciation for being able to find them easily, as they stand out to all of his senses.

He takes the folders marked by the catalogue and again finds himself noticing how they have picked up traces of matter, of Earth – traces of _Aziraphale_. The paper feels slightly rough under his fingertips instead of sleek, the corners tend towards rolling in, there are even a few stains.

Aziraphale's handwriting shows clear changes over the centuries as well.

Gabriel stops at one of the more recent entries, the 19th century, in which Aziraphale reports about the progress on a divine inspiration he had sought - and been granted - permission for, a permanent Hall to Exhibit arts and science, after the World Fair had been a success.

Gabriel flips through the follow-up reports.

Yes, Aziraphale did indeed succeed, despite the untimely demise of the Prince he had inspired, and even better – the building appears to still be in use.

⁂

"The Box Office of the Royal Albert Hall," Crowley repeats, incredulous, putting down his needles for a moment to look up at the Sergeant.

"And they walked. The whole three miles. Didn't even look out of breath. If my Mrs S hadn't brought her scooter, I'd have lost 'em!"

"Didn't seem to be carrying anything when they walked out, either," Tracy adds, after patting her husbands arm. They are gonna keep being disgustingly happy together, Crowley is sure of it.

"What size are their tickets, usually?" Newton asks, ever practical. "Small enough to hide in a jacket pocket?"

"Yeah, but that _can't_ be it, getting Aziraphale concert tickets is like, a _Tuesday_ , not courtship material."

"It is for _you_ , dearie, but does Gabriel know that?" Tracy asks, while Newton tries to look up this season's program and only succeeds in making his phone crash spectacularly.

"Not really, but I have trouble picturing the Archangel fucking Gabriel go the easy route for anything."

"Maybe a season pass?" Newton suggests. He has abandoned his phone in favor of his knitting needles again. Crowley watches his fingers, the way the motions flow. It's sort of Soothing, like watching the ocean.

"Nah, they don't do those. Or rather they do, but only for specific bits, and with many caveats, so not worth it, really."

"If you say he's one for Big Gestures, maybe Gabriel is renting out the whole hall for something?"

"I can't picture him hiring a human orchestra, he tends to think of you as ... well"

"Yeah," Tracy says, resigned.

Newton looks back and forth between them, then chooses to keep poking at his phone instead of asking. It has begun to slightly smell like melted plastic.

"Mhm," Shadwell harrumphs. "Is there really a Heavenly Choir? Or is that just ..."

"Yeah that is a thing, actually" Crowley says absently, because that _is_ an essence-churning thought.

Even if moving to Earth instead of the Ethereal Planes would lose them some oomph, and their music selection was usually terrible, a performance of the Heavenly Choir _would_ make his music box-thing look paltry in comparison.

"But then why the Albert Hall?" Tracy asks.

Newton has tossed his phone aside and is back to knitting at a speed that to Crowley still looks not just inhuman, but impossible.

"He could have it open it to the public? I bet Aziraphale would appreciate that."

Tracy snorts and Crowley outright cackles, his head thrown back.

Newton blushes and focuses even harder on his stitches.

"No, no, you have a point, Aziraphale absolutely would appreciate that sort of thing," Tracy reassures him.

"If they've figured out how to put on a Celestial Harmony without making a mortal audience _bleed out their eyes and ears_ " Crowley points out, but Tracy shushes him before she turns back to Newton.

"It's Gabriel you're giving far too much credit, dearie."

"'e would nae go so far as to put on a performance 'imself, would 'e?" Shadwell asks.

"He absolutely would – if She had given him a shred of talent. Gabriel couldn't carry a tune if it had buckets," Tracy says absentmindedly, then wrinkles not just her nose, but her entire face at whatever sensation the memory-echo causes.

Crowley aches to talk to Aziraphale about that.

Crowley aches to talk to Aziraphale at all, even though it has been only a few hours since he last has – they have been apart longer, of course they have, even relatively recently, but then he'd known Aziraphale was always just a phone call or a quick drive away, and his inability to reach out to him makes his corporation's skin feel too tight.

He picks up the needles he'd dropped when laughing, squints at his knitting to make sure he hasn't dropped any stitches.

"Well, I think it's time for another cuppa," Tracy says. "Help me in the kitchen, Newton?"

"Sure thing, Mrs S."

A rough pat on his clothed lower arm nearly makes Crowley jump.

He's surprised to find Sergeant Shadwell has leaned across the table and is looking straight into the lenses of his sunglasses.

"That southern pansy's so gone on you, a bleedin' singin' greetin' card would outdo whatever that pillock is offerin'"

"Uh ..." Crowley says, intelligently.

Shadwell leans back in his chair.

"Go back to your knittin'"

Crowley does.

He also makes sure to leave the newlyweds 666 pounds, in cash, in an envelope.

Encouraging tax evasion, that's all.

⁂

Aziraphale is reading, or, more accurately, trying to read. His gaze keeps slipping off the page and to the telephone.

He wants to call Crowley.

Which is, quite frankly, ludicrous.

Aziraphale has talked to Crowley for more time in the past week than they usually managed in a month even while working on the same _estate_.

The demon would hardly welcome Aziraphale pestering him again already.

⁂

Crowley wakes with a gasp, his heart pounding out of his chest, his eyes blurry, and with the scent of smoke in his nose.

He tries to reach for his phone, but can't.

His arm isn't moving.

Wiggling his foot works. Scrunching his nose works too. He tries stretching his hand toward the phone again, but his arm will not budge, but _it needs to._

He lifts his hand to his face so fast he nearly slaps himself, examines it feverishly, finds nothing out of the ordinary, to his corporeal or demonic senses.

All the muscles are under his full control until he tries to even twitch it into the direction of his phone. He pushes as hard as he can, sits up in his bed to push harder, but always finds an equal force pushing back, and it takes several heart pounding moments for him to realize why.

Crowley can't call Aziraphale to make sure he's safe because the bloody contract geas counts that as _seeking him out._

He stares at the phone for an interminable amount of time, tries to will it to ring, which is ludicrous, Aziraphale just called, they were talking for _days_ , there is absolutely no reason for the angel to call him now, no matter how much Crowley's selfish demonic arse wishes otherwise.

With a sigh he lets himself fall back into the pillows.

"If the geas is stopping me from calling him, it means the contract is still intact, so Aziraphale is fine," he says, hoping hearing it out loud will make it easier to believe.

His heart beat still won't slow down.

"Well, that's enough sleep for the next fortnight, then," He says, rubs his face, and gets out of bed.

⁂

The proverbial silver lining of this particular cloud, Aziraphale muses as Crowley takes off his sun glasses and tucks them into his shirt in a now practiced, fluid motion, is that he gets to see Crowley's eyes a lot more.

Maybe, he wonders on the way to the back room, he can encourage him to keep up the habit even without an Archangel present?

The Archangel in question reaches into an inside pocket of his coat, and holds out a card, about the size of your average calling card, with both hands.

Aziraphale accepts and examines it.

The card identifies one A.Z. Fell as a Friend and Patron of the Royal Albert Hall.

"It is set up to renew on my account for the next seven years, after which we can re-evaluate." Gabriel gives a smile. "I will gladly join you for what events you wish to attend – you may however want to take one of your human friends to the dinner engagements."

Aziraphale considers pointing out he's a lot more likely to take Crowley to those events – any of them – but decides that is a fight not to start right now.

The Message underneath the gift is clear, if positively subtle for Gabriel.

Gabriel is telling him that even If he chooses him, chooses Heaven, he will not have to give up all of the things on Earth he has come to care for – At least not immediately. Gabriel undoubtedly has some long-term plans of "improving" him.

Unlike his previous threatened "promotion" in the early 19th century, this return would be one into far more flexibility – An Archangel's Bonded will have more freedoms than many.

Even with the strings undoubtedly attached to the idea, it still shows more recognition of – and care for – Aziraphale's feelings than Gabriel has ever displayed before, and for the first time, Aziraphale wonders If Gabriel's suit attempt might indeed be just that. Genuine.

While he has considered many possible outcomes to the courtship, having to _let the Archangel Gabriel down easy_ was not among them.

Discomfited, he tucks that thought away to contemplate later.

"Thank you, Gabriel, for this truly thoughtful gift," Aziraphale says, and turns to show it to Crowley.

"Kensington Circle?" the Demon asks, and lets out an impressed whistle. "Someone's dipped deep into Heaven's pocket book."

"Well, demon, let's see what you've got," Gabriel challenges.

Crowley takes what looks like a fortifying breath, then pulls out first a large, thin book from the bag, lays it on the table, then reaches back into the bag to pull out a little wooden case. He handles it delicately, a rotation revealing a winding key at the back, which his nimble fingers turn as far as it will go.

Then Crowley sets the music box down so it faces toward Aziraphale and opens it.

Aziraphale gasps when he recognizes the melody, watches mesmerized as the little bumblebees spin around the blossom, and has to wipe away a few tears when it finally slows and sputters out.

He turns to Crowley to find the demon looking back at him, eyes and vulnerabilities bare.

No words in any language they have ever learned feels adequate, but he needs to say _something_ , because he can see Crowley grow more and more wary with every moment of his silence and Gabriel is looking increasingly smug.

"I wish I could share this with _the world_ ", Aziraphale finally admits, his voice thick, fearing his nose will start running any second to add to the spectacle.

Crowley smirks.

And _oh_ , Aziraphale knows that smirk.

It has been cause for alarm countless times over the centuries.

Right now it fills him with giddy anticipation, instead – because this smirk tells him he has walked right into an opening Crowley left for him.

"Funny you should say that," the demon says, his smug tone belied by the tenderness in his gaze. "Way ahead of you – set up a CIC, music boxes just like this one have been selling for nearly a decade now, all profits are going into a scholarship fund supporting girls in music."

"What's a Cee-Aye-Cee?" Gabriel asks.

"A community interest company," Aziraphale explains and tries not to let his annoyance at the interruption show. Too much, at least.

Crowley taps the book Aziraphale had managed to forget entirely, instantly regaining his full attention.

"The book's got the details and profiles of all beneficiaries so far."

Aziraphale takes a step toward Crowley, just the one 55, and has a split second to see Crowley's eyes widen, as if he isn't quite sure what to brace himself for.

Then he is hugging the darling, silly demon as close as he dares, splays his fingers to cover as much of Crowley's back as he can, breathes in the demon's scent.

He has no words for the nuances, just knows Crowley smells a little like the Bentley and mostly like himself – like _Home_.

"My Dear," Aziraphale starts, fails to find any words to continue, and squeezes just a little instead.

When Crowley returns the embrace, Aziraphale muffles a sob in his shoulder.

"Now don't you go ruining my streak of snot-free outfits, Angel," Crowley teases, but doesn't loosen his hold until Aziraphale does.

⁂

Tears, Aziraphale once explained at a Heavenly meeting 56 were less about any emotion in particular, and far more about catharsis - the release of emotions that overwhelmed the human mind.

When Gabriel saw Aziraphale weep in response to Crowley's offering, a crude mechanical device playing a simple melody, his entirely reasonable conclusion was that the Principality was releasing the emotions that bound him to the demon. His error in judgement became obvious soon after, but the one question he manages to voice only added to his confusion – How could a demon do something in the interest of the community?

Then Gabriel watched, stunned, as Aziraphale moved toward Crowley not to, as Gabriel first thought, attack the demon, but to _embrace_ him.

It seemed hardly comfortable, to hug the demon, who had little padding on his bony corporation. His own corporation's muscle to fat ratio was optimal, of course.

Crowley took the opportunity to throw a smirk at Gabriel over Aziraphale's shoulder and the Archangel has felt unsteady since – for the first time, he is uncertain of his victory.

The demon is saying something about streaks that makes little sense, but then, nothing about this situation does, does it?

And really, was a hug supposed to last _this long_?

It seems to take a truly absurd amount of time until Aziraphale finally pulls back, his hands still gliding over the demon's lower arms, visibly squeezing them once before letting go.

Then Gabriel's watch beeps far ahead of schedule.

And beeps again.

Sandalphon is signaling him.

"Excuse the interruption," Gabriel says, relieved to at least know the appropriate phrase for _this_ situation.

He reaches into his pocket for a phone that obligingly appears.

"Sandalphon." He barks into the phone.

Sandalphon, at least, immediately answers the implied question.

"It cannot wait. It's a Priority One."

"A minute," Gabriel demands.

"Of course."

"Duty calls," Gabriel says mournfully.

"Of course," Aziraphale grants, visibly saddened, and even a little concerned, which is heartening. He has not yet lost.

"I will see you next week, Aziraphale," he says.

"Until then, Gabriel."

"And you," he says to the demon, inclining his head politely.

"Yup, see ya," Crowley responds flippantly, then turns to Aziraphale. "Talk soon!"

"Of course," Aziraphale responds.

They take their leave.

"Update," he demands from the phone as soon as the door closes behind him.

He is watching the demon's car drive away, clenching and unclenching his free hand, while Uriel explains.

"So you are telling me, Uriel, that you used a Priority One Override because Beelzebub wants to bring Dagon instead of Hastur to our next negotiation?"

"Yes."

"And why did you come to me with this? Michael is in charge of the schedule."

"Michael left her phone in her office. I can't reach her. Sandalphon can always reach you."

Gabriel prays for patience.

For a moment, he considers hanging up on her and going back into the store, back to Aziraphale.

But it would mean Crowley could, and undoubtedly would, return for his share of Aziraphale's time later, and he is more sure than ever he cannot risk leaving the demon alone with him.

"I'm on my way."

45 Upon seeing the way Aziraphale avoided looking at the box of chocolates in the back room, she immediately deduced sufficient amount of detail to let loose a rather impressive stream of profanity about bodyshaming bosses, dragged the rest out of him with alarming ease, and then proceeded to successfully tempt him into demolishing the rest of the chocolates with her – and plenty of alcohol – out of sheer spite. ↩

46 He does not add this likely would have kicked off what Crowley has dubbed 'the Big One' early. ↩

47 He is also rather glad to have an excuse to stop pondering the accuracy of Tracy's description of his situation. ↩

48 Given she is Crowley's car, said volume is equal to approximately an entire rock concert. ↩

49 As opposed to his parents, who would only praise the same thing once, maybe twice, before losing interest ↩

50 That perception is Crowley's fault in the first place, though he does not remember it, being blackout drunk at the time. In a first foray at mass-producing sin and malcontent, he convinced Roman Emperor Decius of causing a gigantic bureaucratic nightmare by requiring a witnessed sacrifice of every citizen.

He even persuaded him to grant an exception to the Jewish People, and then sold this to Hell as a way to sow envy and discord instead of merciful. In his planning, he had however vastly underestimated how high Anti-Christian sentiment still was, and been entirely unprepared for the blood bath that shortly followed. Crowley sought to drown his sorrows and went on a bender that would remain his worst until the commendation for the Spanish inquisition came in. Once he came to a week later, all he could reconstruct was that his drunk self must have hung out with some Christians and spilled several classified particulars of the Great Plan to them, and given, among other things, the harp-playing angels, he had taken some creative license with the details. Fortunately, Lord Beelzebub doesn't know any of that. It might have ruined playing for them, and even a Prince of Hell needs their coping mechanisms. ↩

51 and one, as Crowley assured them at the time, particularly diabolical horse ↩

52 He pointedly left the tumbler where it was, just in case the loosening of tongues turns literal. His infernal essence bound it – He does not want to find himself in breach of contract by accident. ↩

53 The true reason he still has a phone with a cord on his desk. ↩

54 The discerning internet user would recognize Comic sans. The font will also be found on the majority of reports, as most field agents did not so much learn to write as download the autopilot into their corporation. ↩

55 and he has no idea if they were that close or if he's sidestepping physics ↩

56 Angelic Field Agents were continuously baffled why Humans responded to a seemingly near-infinite variety of circumstances by leaking from their orifices ↩

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You are all made of lovely! The commenters, the bookmarkers, the kudos-button-pushers, and the lurkers too! 
> 
> I've officially run out of buffer, and Chapter 5 is somewhat fighting me, so I won't promise it for next Tuesday, but I will do my Best!
> 
> UPDATE that I hope some of you see, since I know a few readers wait for the weekend to dig in: Looks like Chapter 5 will have a cliffhanger - Would You Guys rather wait for that a bit longer (i.e. until I've made good headway on Chap 6 too), so you have the assurance it'll get resolved soon after, or get Moar as soon as possible even if it means staying hanging for a while?


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Gabriel makes a mistake, Crowley gets burned, and Aziraphale begins a craft project of his own

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *falls in* 
> 
> I MADE IT! 
> 
> In case you didn't see the end notes on the last chapter – This one ends on a bit of a cliffhanger, Chapter 6 still only exists as an outline, and my spoons are erratic at best, so no hard feelings if you'd rather wait until the next chapter's out!

Gabriel enters the meeting room with only seconds to spare, fully expecting Michael to twitch an eye brow at him from the head of the table before opening the meeting.

Except Michael isn't there. 

"We appreciate your patience," Uriel says. 

"Patience is a virtue, so we don't have to bother with it," Dagon retorts, leaned back in her chair, feet up on the table. She is holding a red and white striped paper bag filled with what seem to be exploded grains, and throws some of them into her mouth to crunch on while smiling widely. 

The demon isn't looking back at Uriel, either, but instead watching ... Beelzebub, who has been lurking near the door, it appears, and now comes up to him. 

"So, how has the courtship been going?" 

They have asked every time. 

They are the only one who asks.

"Well, as the quaint human saying goes, it ain't over til it's over." 

Beelzebub gives him a searching look. 

"Are you ready to step up to the plate, then?" They ask. 

Before Gabriel can muster a reply, Michael enters. 

"Awwww," says Dagon. "You do realize that to be fashionably late you should actually be fashionable, right?"

Michael does not dignify that with more than a raised eye brow before she walks up to the head of the table. 

⁂

The courier arrives bright and early, just as scheduled, and, while his "Good morning, Sir," is irritatingly cheerful, he does not flinch when he makes eye contact with Crowley57, who only then realizes he has forgotten to put on his sunglasses in his haste to open the door and accept the package. 

"If you would sign here, please?" He requests without missing a beat and Crowley cannot help thinking the man looks oddly familiar.

But then, he's spent six thousand years on Earth. Makes it hard for any given face not to remind him of another, so he just drawls out a "Sure" and does as the man bid him, making a mental note that the International Express Company appears surprisingly reliable and precise. 

Crowley carries the package to his desk and unpacks his commission eagerly, admiring it from all angles. 

It's perfect.

He hopes Aziraphale will think so too. 

⁂

Aziraphale is pacing through his back room, fidgeting with his ring. 

He is hosting Newton and Tracy again today, but finished all his preparation absurdly early in an attempt to distract himself from his churning thoughts, and is now left with nothing to do but wait and fret. 

The idea of Gabriel truly holding tender feelings for him seems, on the face of it, ludicrous, and yet it _would_ explain why the Archangel had sought him out in the first place, even before he got that silly theory of Crowley keeping him captive into his head. 

He had believed Gabriel's declaration of wishing to save him to stem from Duty – but has Gabriel, instead cast himself as the Knight in Shining Armor to rescue the Principality from the clutches of the Dragon? 

Of the two, Gabriel seems far more likely to attempt to lock Aziraphale up in a tower and clip his wings, though Crowley would, admittedly, make a rather fetching dragon, and for a moment, he entertains a vision of Dragon-Crowley carrying him away from such a prison, guarding him until his wings recover, and them both flying off into the sunset and living happily ever after. 

Then he shakes his head and calls himself to order.

Is it truly fair to cast Gabriel as a storybook villain? 

Resolute, Aziraphale lifts the lid of the canvas box, then sets the box itself inside it, watches it slot in, before taking out the cashmere throw. 

The day _is_ somewhat chilly, and the quilt is back in his office, and the throw blanket right here. It was a gift, and it would be a shame not to use it. 

Aziraphale sits down and drapes it over his lap, keeping it mostly folded so it does not drag on the floor. 

The tea is ready, the door is open only to his guests, who both already know the way to the back room. 

When he is about to reach for the knitting needles, a sudden thought leads him to falter – is it rude to use courting gifts from both his suitors at once? 

He is still ruminating on this, his fingers drumming across his thigh through the fabric, by the time Newton and Tracy enter. 

Tracy's lips thin at the sight, but she stays true to her promise and says nothing while they set up. 

Newton takes a little longer, having less of the pieces, but he too notices something amiss soon enough.

"That purple stands out in here," he says quietly, casually. It's an unobtrusive invitation, designed to be disregarded if it should be unwelcome. 

"The blanket is from Gabriel," Aziraphale blurts out. 

Tracy and Newton both wait, let him sort out his thoughts. 

"I fear I may have been ... leading him on," Aziraphale admits. 

"How so?" Newton asks. 

"Well, I thought his ... his _proposal_ was a plot of some kind. The drawn-out process would give us time to figure out what was going on," He explains, rubs the satin lining of a blanket edge between his fingers "But I'm starting to wonder if he might ... be sincere about all this. And if he is ... Well, then it is us – me, really – who entered a contract under false pretenses, and thus gave him false hope. And that thought doesn't sit well with me."

"If his proposal, as you said, was sincere – if you had proof of that – would you accept it?" Newton asks. He sounds genuinely curious. 

"Of course not!" Aziraphale says. "Like I told him, we're not at all compatible!" 

"Told him _when_?" Tracy asks pointedly. 

"When he proposed in the first place." 

"And what did he say to that?" Newton asks. 

"He ... he accused Crowley of influencing my mind."

"So he didn't take your refusal seriously."

"No. I tried to explain that I – that _we_ chose Earth, that this is my home now, but he wouldn't hear any of it."

"If you thought, as you said, that this was part of a plot, why then not just say so?" 

"Well, I wasn't sure either way!" 

"Whose idea was the competitive courtship, then?" Tracy asks. 

"Crowley's."

"And do you think Gabriel would have left, if Crowley hadn't suggested that?" Newton asks. 

"No. He was ... quite determined." 

"Now I'm not very well educated on the politics of. Uh." Newton makes vague motions skyward. "But what I gathered, from you and Crowley and the airbase, is that Gabriel's pretty high up?" 

"You could say so, yes."

"Would you say he has more power than you?" 

"Definitely." 

"And he has subordinates, yes? People who follow his orders?" 

"Pretty much most of Heaven." 

"So, to recap, Gabriel proposed, you tried to turn him down, and when Gabriel wouldn't back off, Crowley goaded him into agreeing to a formalized competition that limited his otherwise considerable options of escalation, and now you're worried because it is a competition he cannot win?"

Put like that ... 

"I'm being quite silly, aren't I?" 

"Aziraphale, dove, I know you're just trying to give him the benefit of the doubt," Tracy says.

"Which is admirable," interjects Newton. 

"But you are granting him more consideration than he ... than he has ever extended to you."

"And more than he deserves," Aziraphale finishes the unsaid, and Tracy looks a little sheepish. 

"I was trying not to say it!" 

"You did not say it. Quite loudly so," Aziraphale teases, then turns serious again as he admits: "And ... you might not be wrong about it either."

Aziraphale returns the cashmere throw to its box and feels lighter for it. 

⁂

The Bentley, mollified by tales of The Hug and the reassurance that Crowley has his gift ready and no doubts about it, is happy to take an extended drive, though her Passenger Seat still feels far too empty. 

⁂

"I just saw him ereyesterday," Aziraphale reminds himself firmly when he finds his gaze drawn from his knitting to the phone again and again. 

He does, however, move to the couch and wrap himself in the quilt. 

⁂

With Crowley's offering taken care of, Aziraphale out of reach, his rival mostly in Heaven, and his resolution not to sleep while the geas is in effect, there is only so much knitting, menacing his plants, and driving he can do before a maddening sense of boredom starts to creep back in. 

Which is why he is currently standing in Battersea Park, in a carefully calculated position exactly along Gabriel's Jogging Route, and faux-casually tapping on his smartphone. 

Gabriel of course spots him – the tingling of being noticed, watched, lights him up soon enough, but he keeps his posture slouchily relaxed as he watches Gabriel's approach from his peripheral vision. 

Gabriel slows down a little, finally jogs in place right in front of him. 

Crowley looks up, his gaze sliding entirely over Gabriel, to stare at a pair of ducks, watch a cloud, basically anything but acknowledge the Archangel's presence. 

Gabriel's patience soon runs out.

"Yes?" he asks. 

"Mhm?" Crowley responds, doing his best to seem entirely absorbed and uninterested. 58

"I assume you wanted something?" Gabriel suggests. 

"Mhm?" Crowley says again, then borrows some of Aziraphale's best innocent oblivious bastardry for a disinterested "Oh, no, not in particular."

"Then why are you standing in my way?" Gabriel asks. 

"I'm standing in your way?" Crowley exclaims in fake surprise, finally actually looking at Gabriel. "Oh, Pardon me!" 

He takes a large step backwards59, then goes back to staring at his phone. 

It has done absolutely nothing to remove him from Gabriel's path. 

Gabriel stares at him, incredulous, and Crowley delivers the fatal blow. 

"Mhm?" He asks, back to Warlock's "you're inconveniencing me for something _boring_ and therefore beneath my notice, but you're not gonna stop until I've given you my attention, so I'll just have to give in"–tone, even flicks his hair a little for good measure. 60 "Did you want something?" 

Gabriel finally huffs and jogs in a tight arc around him. 

Crowley turns in place to watch his progress, then jauntily waves after him. 

He makes it all the way to the Bentley before bursting into laughter. 

⁂

Fitzrowling's Antiques and Appraisals, as the sign says, seems like a perfectly respectable establishment – the kind that is clean, decorated in neutral colors, with well-dressed and groomed staff that will likely prove attentive yet unobtrusive. 

Stepping inside it, Gabriel immediately feels at ease. 

"Good morning, Sir. Are you looking for something specific?"

"A gift. I am hoping to present someone with a token of my affection – preferably one that can be worn." 

The only explanation Gabriel has been able to come up with for Crowley's odd behaviour at Battersea Park was that the demon is aware that in this week, with his own demonstrable sense of style and taste, he is at an inherent disadvantage, and therefore attempted to confound him to throw him off. 

It is, in a way, quite reassuring. 

“And would that be a gift for a special lady?”

"An angel, in fact, but for the purpose of your inquiry, a gentleman." 

"Of course, pardon the assumption. Have you considered a watch?"

"I have, but not only does he have a pocket watch in good repair, but it seemed rather ... impersonal."

"And you did not seem interested in rings?" 

"No, I am not." 

"An angel you say? And where would said angel be based? I might have something for you, but getting it through customs ..."

"Will Not be an issue," says Gabriel, a haughty smile on his face that strongly implies such concerns were beneath him. 61

"Of course, Sir. A moment, please." 

The salesperson unlocks a drawer beneath the register and takes out a set of cufflinks inlaid with delicately carved off-white wings. Engravings that gently suggest a continuation of the feathers fan out from them across the golden frames. "Gold and Ivory, Sir." 

The salesperson continues to elaborate on something around the number 47 and certificates but Gabriel does not bother to listen. 

"They are Perfect. What do I owe you?"

⁂

Fitzrowling's Antiques and Appraisals, as the sign says, looks like a posh place of the worst kind – where, if say, the Southern Pansy steps inside, he'll immediately be fawned over, but when someone like Sergeant Shadwell does, he cannae so much as breathe in the direction of the merchandise without earning a _look_. 

Unfortunately, that means it looks like the purple-eyed gobshite picked well – and he leaves a considerable wad of cash, too. 

When Shadwell does enter the shop he has to acknowledge his first impression was nae quite right – while the posh prick behind the counter _does_ immediately size him up all right, he then gets an acquisitive gleam in his eye instead as if he uses the same calculations to determine how outrageously to fleece him on whatever appraisal he must surely be here for. 

He'd be a poor sod indeed if he had to sell something to this smarmy git. 

Fortunately, all he needs is to find out what his mark bought. 

Well, that ought to be easy enough. 

⁂

Tracy's phone ringing during one of their meetings isn't unusual, exactly. Several of her customers have been trying to convince her to fit her in just once more before her retirement, and she seems to be a bit of a soft touch with them. 62

Newton and Crowley, both rather prone to jumping at unexpected noises, don't even bother to twitch anymore – Newt just continues his explanation on different bind-off methods and their applications, with a few demonstration swatches he prepared and that Crowley pokes at inquisitively. 

"It's Mrs Shadwell now, actually," Tracy corrects cheerfully. "Well, it is," She adds, steel creeping into her cheer, and something in Crowley tenses in response, posed to strike. 

Newton picks up on the same, or perhaps Crowley's body language instead, since he falters as well and watches as Tracy takes down some information on her notepad.

"I'm on my way," Tracy finishes, just a bit snippy, and Crowley gets to his feet when she hangs up. 

"What have you got my Mr S into now, Crowley?" Tracy scolds as she packs up her knitting, but she sounds more exasperated than truly angry. 

"Same as the past few weeks. Keeping eyes on Gabriel." 

"Somehow he got in trouble with the police. Again. Harassing a shop keeper, supposedly." 

"Arrested?" He asks. With the Sergeant's priors, that could make things interesting. Especially if he's been asking about nipples again. 

"Nah, they don't bother, usually, they just call me to come pick him up"

"Should I – er –" Newton asks. 

"Lesson time, Newton," Crowley announces. "Chop Chop!"

They coach him on the ride over – this time, his task is mostly to pay close attention to what they are doing. 

Crowley exits the Bentley, and, trusting Newt to open the passenger side door for Tracy63, swaggers toward the small knot of uniformed people surrounding Shadwell. 

"Ye don't understand, this is beyond your ken!" Shadwell is currently trying to argue. 

"Now Now, Sergeant," Crowley says teasingly "You can't just go and tell them that!" 

"Mr Crowley?" Shadwell asks, puzzled and even a little cowed. 

The police officers eye the demon with interest now.64

"Just gave his wife a ride," Crowley claims cheerfully. "Excuse us, please?"

Taking Shadwell aside, he drops into a whisper just loud enough to be overheard by the uniformed bystanders obviously straining their ears to hear. "Your instructions were _surveil only_ , what were you thinking, breaking procedure like that?"

"I thought finding out what he'd bought would be more important!"

"You thought you saw an opening and took initiative and", Crowley tilts his head meaningfully towards the police officers, " _cocked it up_. Really, you should know better, you're hardly a raw recruit anymore! Do you even know where your mark is right now?"

Shadwell shakes his head.

Meanwhile, Tracy is charming the officers in a stage whisper of her own. "No, no, the gentleman in question is well aware he's _under surveillance_. I thought it would be a grand way of keeping my darling busy until we've got the move finalized! Didn't expect he'd go off script, so sorry about that, officers!"

"Oh, it's no trouble, ma'am," they are hasty to claim, eyeing Sergeant Shadwell far more sympathetically now. 

To his credit, Newt keeps a blank vaguely curious face until they're back in the car – Tracy taking the back seat with the Sergeant, now, putting Newt in the front.65

"You lied to the police!" he then bursts out. "You can't just _lie_ to the _police_!" 

"I said a grand total of three words to them," Crowley points out.

"Okay, but Tracy did!"

"Did I?" Tracy asks. "When?" 

"When you told them that Gabriel agreed to the whole thing to keep Sergeant Shadwell busy?"

"But I never said any such thing, dearie. I said he knows he is under surveillance, which is perfectly true, and that I thought my husband staying occupied by keeping an eye Gabriel until we're ready to move was a good idea, which is also true. Any connection they drew between those two facts are on them, not on me."

Newton blinks in puzzlement. It's a motion that somehow seems to take up half of his face. 

"Telling outright falsehoods is usually a bad idea, those are the most easily disproven," Crowley picks up the thread. "Implying and insinuating leads them to create the lie in their own head, and feel clever doing it, while you retain plausible deniability." 

Newton visibly mulls that over while Tracy turns to scolding the Sergeant, who takes it with long-practiced grace. 

⁂

"Angel!" Crowley manages to pack so much surprised delight into those two syllables all of Aziraphale's concerns about calling go up in smoke, only to replace them with entirely new ones when he asks: "Do you think we can discorporate from boredom?"

Aziraphale calms his heart, which started pounding at "discorporate", with considerable effort and tries not to sound _too_ cross when responding. "I highly doubt it, my dear." 

"But what are you basing this on? What our corporations can take seems to very much vary on personal perception – Hastur discorporated in the Bentley in the Heat on the M25 while I didn't, so there is definitely a mind over matter component to this! So If I truly feel like I am about to expire from boredom, who's to say it's not going to happen?"

Crowley has described to him, once, what boredom feels like to the demon. How he would find himself agonizingly understimulated, the itch under his skin unbearable until it found an outlet.

It makes his concern sound disturbingly plausible. 

When Crowley's rambles start to make sense it is usually a sign to – depending on the circumstances – break out the wine or sober up. 

"Crowley, please do not give me another reason to worry about you," Aziraphale begs instead. 

"Uuuuh," begins Crowley.

"What did you do?" demands Aziraphale immediately. 

"Do you really want to know? You did ask me not to give you another reason ..."

"Anthony J Crowley!" 

"I may have gone and annoyed Gabriel on his Jogging Route a little. Nothing major, nothing endangering the contract, I promise!" 

"Because you were bored," Aziraphale sighs. 

"Yeah," Crowley says, sounding surprisingly penitent. 

Which is why Aziraphale swallows the scolding as to the risks Crowley is already well aware of and likely took into account when planning his shenanigan in the first place, and instead asks: "Well, was it funny?" 

"Hurgh?" says Crowley. 

"Was it funny?" Aziraphale repeats. 

"Angel," Crowley begins; "it was _hilarious_." 

Aziraphale, after hearing the full story, has to concur. 

⁂ 

Crowley is sprawled in his throne. 

In the air before him, he has set the comb afloat, slowly turning on its own axis so he can see it from all angles. 

His fingers twirl a white feather as looks back and forth between it and the comb. 

This angel feather is his, but also isn't, and it might still come in handy, one day. 

Aziraphale might have ideas, and even if he doesn't, it'll be a pleasant discussion on the arcane possibilities. 

Finally, he brushes several barbules off of it, tiny particles that cling to his skin – Not enough to destroy the integrity of the feather, but enough to use. 

Crowley gently blows them off his fingers at the comb and watches its gravitational pull draw them in, splattering the black and turning it into a shining galaxy. 

He watches it spin and smiles. 

⁂ 

"Sir, we cannot process this requisition form until you have obtained a countersignature from another Archangel." 

"That has never been a requirement before." 

"It is a recent policy change, Sir." 

Sandalphon fortunately obliges him before he has even finished his request.

⁂ 

"A Holy container? Really?" Crowley sneers as soon as they are through the door. It sounds more nasal than usual – what on Earth has Gabriel brought with him that is already hitting Crowley's sinuses? 

Aziraphale finds a handkerchief while Gabriel blusters. 

"After your antics earlier this week, it seemed reasonable to take precautions!"

"Precautions to what, exactly?" Crowley asks and accepts the handkerchief just in time to sneeze into it.

"I do not presume to know what is going on in your infernal mind, demon," Gabriel proclaims. 

"Well, go on then? Big Reveal and all?" Crowley prods Gabriel, who steps forward, takes out a hinged box mercifully too large to make Aziraphale fear yet another type of unwanted proposal. 

Gabriel still opens it with a ceremonial air that is making him feel exceedingly awkward. 

"Principality Aziraphale, I would be honored if you would wear these as a token of my esteem." 

Aziraphale barely gets a look at the contents – golden cufflinks decorated with something bright, mother of pearl perhaps? the shimmer seems wrong – before Crowley has darted forward, quick as a striking viper, and snaps the box shut again even though he must have known it would burn him. 

"How dare you bring something like this in here, how dare you ssssully his sssanctuary?" Crowley thunders, the hiss reverbrating through the shop, which seems ready to answer, the shadows seeping in from the corners, but Aziraphale has never felt less afraid of him. 

Gabriel looks more puzzled than intimidated. "I beg your pardon?" 

"Then _beg_ ," Crowley spits and advances on him, his eyes glowing with hellfire, his fangs bared, makes the Archangel back up a step with nothing but the force of his fury. 

"Crowley," Aziraphale implores. "I don't understand." 

Which does not mean he doesn't believe.

"Asssk him why he _really_ used a shielded container," Crowley suggests. 

Aziraphale turns to Gabriel, raises an eye brow expectantly.

"The cuff links have … some slightly unpleasant residue," Gabriel grants; "That would fade in time. The container was intended to help the process along" 

"And masssk it too," Crowley accuses. 

"And that," Gabriel admits.

"Crowley," Aziraphale asks, tired of Gabriel's evasion already; "What is it?" 

"That's poached ivory, and paid for in blood at leassst twice since, by the way it reeksss. It's sssoaked in pain and ssssuffering. Out of the box, you'd feel it too."

A quiet whimper in the back of Aziraphale's mind wants to refute it in reflex, but Gabriel doesn't even bother to deny it.

"They are beautifully crafted, and would suit you well. What concern is the human residue to us, Aziraphale?" Gabriel argues, and his words do not surprise him nearly as much as he wishes they would. "Wear them in Heaven for a decade and it would fade beyond recognition!" 

Crowley makes wordless noises of outrage. 

The mere thought of _touching_ them makes Aziraphale queasy. 

As does the thought of having them – or the Archangel who brought them – in his shop a minute longer.

"Archangel Gabriel, I reject your suit," he declares. 

Gabriel opens his mouth as if to argue, but no sound comes out. 

Aziraphale doesn't know if it's due to the surprise, or the contract conditions, but cannot quite bring himself to care either way. 

"Leave. And take _that_ with you."

Gabriel doesn't try to protest again, just takes the box and exits.

⁂

Crowley's demonic essence is still thrumming under his skin, demanding he _rend_ with fangs and claws, until the door closes behind Gabriel, the wards settling around them. 

"Let me see that?" Aziraphale requests and all the remaining fight goes out of Crowley. 

He offers his hand without hesitation, lets Aziraphale cradle it and inspect the burn wounds on his fingertips. They're not too bad, really, barely blistering. 

Aziraphale tuts over them anyway, then puckers his lips and gently blows cold air over the shiny, angry skin – a sight that entirely obliterates Crowley's verbal filter.

"You gonna kiss it better?" He asks. It's a silly question, and they both know it. Aziraphale cannot heal holy wounds, only treat them the human way. 1941 proved that. 

"He's gone", Aziraphale reminds him, looking down to examine Crowley's fingers very intently. "You don't have to play at romance anymore."

And Crowley swallows, hard, before admitting: "I was never playing. Well, with _him_ ," he quickly amends, when Aziraphale's head snaps back up and Crowley can all but _see_ the admonishment ready to fall from his lips. He feels terribly naked without his sunglasses, but Crowley looks straight at Aziraphale anyway when he continues: "But not with you, Angel" 

"Not even" Aziraphale's voice breaks, but he gathers himself and continues: "Not even when you claimed to have a comb all ready?"

" _Especially_ not then."

Crowley lifts his uninjured hand, reaches for his inside pocket, ready to prove it, to offer all of himself – when Aziraphale catches it with his own, instead.

For a moment, Crowley expects rejection, but Aziraphale's eyes are shining, and both his hands are now gently wrapping around Crowley's, mindful of the burns. 

"Not yet, dear. You will want your fingers healed for that."

Yet. **Yet**. _Yet_. Will. _Will._ **Will.** The words bounce around Crowley's skull as he absorbs their meaning. 

Not a rejection. 

Not at all. 

"Oh, I will?" He asks, a giddy smile feeling like it is splitting his face open. 

Aziraphale blushes as he raises Crowley's injured fingers to his lips and _breathes_ more than presses a soft kiss onto the burned skin.

"I certainly hope so," Aziraphale says, his answering smile a sunbeam Crowley wants to curl up in like the serpent he is. "We should get some salve on those burns." 

Despite his words, he doesn't move, seems as hesitant to let go as Crowley is. 

"Or we could just stand here for a few days," Crowley suggests. "Doesn't sound half bad."

"Silly serpent," Aziraphale chides softly, lets go of his hands – Crowley mourns the loss of contact immediately – and collects both his first aid kit and a bottle of wine. "Time to move this to my office, don't you think?"

Crowley grabs two glasses and his gift to Aziraphale, which, by the widening of his eyes, the angel has entirely forgotten about until now. 

"After you, Angel," Crowley says and, as always, follows where Aziraphale leads. 

Sitting down on the couch feels like coming home. 

The quilt is draped over its arm, folded, and still feels Loved. 

"May I join you, my dear?" Aziraphale asks, gesturing to the couch, and Crowley's tongue half trips over itself in its haste to agree.

He gives up on operating it entirely as Aziraphale applies an ointment and dresses the wounds with likely far more fuss than they warrant.

Only after that does he hang up his coat and switch to his cardigan, and sits down on the Couch next to Crowley _again_. Like that is a thing they do now. 

Maybe it is.

Crowley does not quite dare to question it. 

Then Aziraphale sneaks the box a little glance, and Crowley finds his words again. 

"Want to unpack your gift, Angel?"

"Desperately," Aziraphale admits and honest-to-Her _giggles_. 

"Go ahead. I'll pour the wine." 

Aziraphale is, at first, visibly puzzled to find a bow-tie in his own favored tartan, if in the highest quality of silk. 

"Pick it up," Crowley suggests, and Aziraphale gasps. The back holds a subtle red and charcoal-grey herringbone pattern, the same thread colors as the red and grey in the tartan, and a wide smile spreads across Aziraphale's face again as he runs a thumb over the soft fabric in his hand. 

"You can tie it as usual, keep the other pattern mostly hidden, your little secret" Crowley explains, "or, if you change the knot a bit, wear it so it shows a mix of both, more tartan or less as you feel like. There's a booklet in the box with diagrams on how to do it, though I'm sure you can figure it out yourself, too, if you like."

Aziraphale _tugs_ on the bow tie he's wearing, loosening the knot and pulling it off _right next to Crowley_ , draping it over the chair with surprisingly little care. 

Crowley tries not to choke on his wine. 

Aziraphale takes his new bow tie and lays it over his legs, then hunts for the booklet and, still bare-necked, studies it with the focus he usually reserves for prophecies about their fate. 

Mesmerized, Crowley watches as long-practiced motions are occasionally paused, doublechecked, and sometimes changed.

"So?" Aziraphale asks when he is done. 

He has tied the bow tie so it mostly shows the red and grey, only the thin band in the middle displaying the tartan. 

When Crowley doesn't answer, his hands nervously twitch toward it. 

"Did I make a mess of it?" He asks, earnestly concerned. 

"Only of me," Crowley confesses, voice a little hoarse. "It looks great, Angel." 

"I do believe I have a new favourite bow tie, then," the Angel declares and, with a satisfied air, reaches for his wine glass.

Crowley is gobsmacked to hear it, and cannot help but tease: "Gosh, I don't think I've ever heard you use _favourite_ and _new_ in the same sentence before."

Aziraphale gives him a withering look at that, but cannot keep it up for long, breaking back into a smile soon enough.

Crowley, still feeling absurdly buoyant, grins back.

And then the phone rings. 

Aziraphale stares at it with such admonishment it should be feeling quite ashamed. 

It still rings again, so Aziraphale picks up. 

"We're quite- oh, Tracy, hello!" He looks markedly less annoyed. 

Crowley pulls out his phone to send celebratory texts of his own to Sabine and Anathema, listens to Aziraphale with half an ear while idly wondering if he should get Adam a phone of his own. 

"Yes, I kicked him out. – You can say it. – Yes, you can tell the Sergeant he will of course be paid in full – Yes, Crowley is still here. – I believe that would be best, thank you, I'm sure he'll join us on Friday, he'll be healed up by then." 

Fair enough, holding knitting needles wouldn't be any fun right now. As Crowley looked up at the mention of his name, he also gets to see how whatever Tracy says next make Aziraphale blush so hard Crowley's own cheeks redden from the mere implication. 

" _No_ , because he injured himself touching a Holy object. – Tracy! I will hang up this phone if you cannot comport yourself with a modicum of … – It certainly is not!" Aziraphale declares and slams the receiver into its cradle, then stares at it at it as if contemplating feeling guilty about it.

Crowley just begins to mentally count down from ten. 

The phone rings again before he makes it very far. 

"Hello?" Aziraphale says, slightly subdued, then relaxes as he listens. "Of course not," he says warmly. Then he stares at the receiver in consternation, and Crowley cackles. 

"She hung up on you right back, didn't she?" 

Aziraphale just nods.

"Mimi's exhibit still open this week, want to go see it together?" Crowley asks as soon as he stops cackling. 

"That sounds like a fantastic idea."

"And we will have to plan in a drive some time. The Bentley positively pined for you," Crowley adds, relishing the geas not tying his tongue anymore.

"I thought she'd have been glad not to have me complaining about the speed?" 

"The appeal of that wore off quickly."

"I shall have to remind you both of that," Aziraphale threatens. 

"Now that is just uncalled for," Crowley complains, but his heart isn't in it. 

"It certainly is not! Someone has convincingly argued that too much boredom might prove fatal to you, so I must clearly keep you on your toes." 

"But I could never be bored with you, Angel," Crowley says far too earnestly. So it looks like his verbal filter is still out of commission. 

Aziraphale smiles. 

"So what you're saying is that I have to keep an eye on you, instead? Make sure not to leave you alone too much?" 

"Exactly," Crowley says, again sounding far more serious than he intended. 

"That's settled, then," Aziraphale declares. 

Fortunately, he does not sound at all displeased with the prospect.

And it's not like Crowley doesn't have a near-infinite list of things he would like to do or talk about with the Angel. 

"Would you believe," Crowley begins, "that the Antichrist saved the world while fully convinced there are only three ice cream flavors?" 

"No! Really?" 

"Really! It isn't even _good_ ice cream! It was a travesty, Angel!" 

And so they drink, and talk, and enjoy each other's company. 

A few hours later, Crowley yawns. 

"Sorry, A-" – another yawn – "a-a-ngel, haven't been sleeping much."

"Has the geas been keeping you up?" 

"Sort of," Crowley says, and Aziraphale still looks so very concerned – Best tell him the embarrassing truth before his fretting Angel comes up with something worse. 

"It was not being able to check on you after a nightmare about. Y'know. Only did that once before I decided I was done with sleeping until this was over." 

"Oh, Crowley!" Aziraphale says, reaching for his hand again, running his thumb over the back of it. "Why don't you take a little nap right here on the couch, then? The quilt is marvelously cozy. And I'll be sitting right here," he points at his chair; "so you can see me when you wake up."

There is little Crowley wants more – the only thing he could name is Aziraphale volunteering to be a pillow for said nap – but a niggling fear will not let him agree. 

"Are you sure I won't ..." He can't even say it. 

"Won't what, Dearest?" Aziraphale's gaze is almost unbearably tender, and that, combined with this new endearment, reduces Crowley to a collection of noises at first. 

"Uh. Ngk. Don't wanna ruin it's aura of love with my demon-y one," He mumbles. 

Aziraphale seems dumbfounded by the very notion. 

"How is that supposed to work?" He asks, and his earnest puzzlement is more of a relief than Crowley has any intention of admitting right now. 66

"Just being silly, I guess" 

"Well then, my silly serpent;" – the possessive pronoun nearly renders Crowley incapable of processing the rest of the words at all; "why don't you sober up most of the way, and I'll tuck you in?" 

"Yesss," Crowley says, and doesn't even remember to feel self-conscious about the hissing. 

The quilt smells like the Bentley and the Bookshop and like _Aziraphale_. He doesn't think he has ever been tucked in, either, and is starting to understand why Warlock loved it so much - it makes him feel _stupendously_ snuggly.

His eyes flutter open a few more times to check, and, as promised, Aziraphale's right there, but just as Crowley is about to drop off, a noise drags him back to partial awareness.

He raises his lids just a smidge to be met with soft white. 

"Why've yagot th'wings out?" he asks, trying to decide if he should feel slighted while his brain is still working at a fraction of its usual speed. 

Aziraphale looks blush-y, almost ... caught out? 

"Lassssecond ssssskidmark check?" Crowley teases. 

Aziraphale gently brushes the very tips of his feathers across Crowley's face, drowning his thought process in _fluff_ and _angel_ , which is entirely unfair. 

"Hush now, go to sleep, and dream of whatever you like best," he says. 

Crowley does. 

⁂

Sandalphon has arrived at their meeting point a precise five minutes ahead of schedule, as always.

It has now been forty seconds since they were supposed to meet. 

No sign of Gabriel.

He waits another twenty seconds, as to not seem overzealous, before reaching out with his grace to send a signal to Gabriel's watch. 

It seems absurdly unlikely for the Archangel Gabriel to have lost track of time, but Gabriel's behaviour has been deviating from his norms significantly in the past few weeks, so Sandalphon cannot entirely discount the possibility either. 

The signal goes unanswered, as do the next two, so after setting a miracle to continue intermittently signaling Gabriel with a request to check in, Sandalphon begins backtracking the most likely route from the bookshop.

The container from the Heavenly Archives is sitting out in the open, on a small ledge. The humans have avoided it, at least, its holy aura deterring them. A quick check reveals it still contains the cuff links, far too precious to be discarded like this, so he tucks the box into his interior suit pocket, with the ribbon, before investigating further. 

He can smell traces of Demonic Presence not too far away. The Ineffable Parley of course included binding assurance of mutual non-aggression for the time being, so even though it is noticeably further away from the bookstore than Crowley has lingered in the past, he is the only possible suspect. 

Sandalphon was the one to file the contract, and he studied it extensively as he did. The demon cannot have interfered with this offering before Gabriel presented it – But this means Aziraphale must have rejected the gift, and Gabriel's suit with it, _ending_ the contract.

And Crowley, no longer bound by it, could have done any number of things to the Archangel after. 

Sandalphon starts for the book store, the flames of Holy Wrath licking at his Grace. 

57 We know, after all, that he's delivered to much weirder ↩

58 He is mostly modeling this on Warlock. Among the reasons Crowley did not clock him as an actual human sooner is that he learned _so much_ from the child on how to _really_ inspire irritation. ↩

59 in fact the largest possible step his tight trousers will let him take without any of the seams splitting ↩

60 It's not terribly effective with how short it is, right now, but it's the principle of the thing. ↩

61 The salesperson sees such about twice on an average day and mentally corrects a few prices upward ↩

62 At least in comparison to Aziraphale. ↩

63 The Bentley, usually not a fan of passengers that are Not Aziraphale and not afraid to show it, seemed surprisingly okay with Tracy, especially once Tracy cooed at her ↩

64 Mr Shadwell, in their experience, is not easily cowed by anyone but Miss Potts-now-Mrs Shadwell. ↩

65 The Bentley, likely picking up on Crowley's mirth, only grumbles a little ↩

66 Or ever. ↩


End file.
